The Long War
by MsBarrows
Summary: Ficlets set in a dystopian near-modern revolutionary AU version of Kirkwall, where Hawke and her friends are a cell in the Underground, rebelling against a tyrannical plutocracy. Assorted pairings, including Sebastian/Anders, Anders/f!Hawke, Sebastian/Cullen and Merrill/Aveline.
1. Sebastian and Anders

_This chapter was originally published in my "In the Maker's Light" Ficlet Collection, but as I've now written a second piece set in the same AU, I've decided to separate it out so they can have their own document, in case I get inspired to write any further entries._

* * *

**Anders/Other – Modern Day Teacher AU, Staff Room Shenanigans**

Another long evening of classes. The curriculum and the sign on the door said network theory, but each night during one of the three one-hour sessions it was actually the organization of revolutionary cells that he talked about to a very small, very select group of students, not the networking of computers. He was always tense by the time the classes ended, sure that one day it would end abruptly with his arrest, rather than with him quietly bidding good-night to the latest round of students. It couldn't last forever, these secretive classes in the mostly-darkened school. Surely someone would realize, sooner or later, that hidden in amongst the usual boring community college night classes of computer basics, assorted ethnic cookery, the sewing and clay sculpture and weaving, were some highly unusual subjects. And some highly unusual teachers; ones whose backgrounds were not as spotless as they seemed at first glance.

They'd all been cleaned and cleared, of course; the name he used was not the one he'd been born with, that one so long abandoned that he barely even remembered it. Anders, he was usually called these days; the name he'd had for the longest, almost a full decade now, since escaping prison and managing to make it into the safety of the underground. Though he had other aliases, used in less secure situations; Justice was one. The Healer was another. Sparkle-fingers. Blondie. It all depended on what he was doing, on whom he was talking to or working with.

He sighed in relief as he entered the staff room. Dark, except for the little florescent fixture hanging from the bottom of the upper cabinets, casting a small circle of light on the counter near the fridge, neatly lighting the coffee maker. The carafe was half-full of coffee; burnt and bitter and black as roofing tar, but right now, just the potion that he needed to calm his frazzled nerves. He fumbled in the cabinets, finding a clean mug, and half-filled it with coffee, dumping in three packets of sugar before topping it up with a handful of non-dairy creamers.

"You'll rot your gut out, drinking that," a lilting voice said from a darkened corner of the room, making him jump, slopping coffee out all over his hand and the counter. "Or your teeth, with that much sugar."

Anders scowled, grabbing a handful of paper towels from a nearby stack – the cheap folded brown paper kind, barely absorbent – to swab up the mess, then tossed the sopping handful in the garbage and retrieved his mug before turning to face the darkened corner. He could see a faintly glowing red circle there, and the glint of eyes reflecting the light behind him. "Certainly no worse than that cancer-stick of yours, Sebastian," he said acidly.

A soft snort, out of the darkness. "It's not tobacco."

He lifted his eyebrows, taking a large sip of his coffee before speaking again. "Mr Prim-and-Proper, smoking grass?"

"Sweetgrass, yes – not marijuana," the man answered softly, seeming unconcerned by the scorn in Anders' voice. "It helps me to relax."

"You, relaxed? Isn't that a whatchamacallit... like military intelligence, or jumbo shrimp..."

"An oxymoron, you mean?" Sebastian asked, sounding amused.

Anders' scowl deepened; he didn't like being a source of amusement to the other man. "Yes, that," he agreed sharply. "Somehow the idea of you and 'relaxed' just don't seem to fit together in my head. Anyway, what are you still doing here? Don't you have pamphlets about the Maker's will to hand out somewhere? Proselytizing for the faith to do? Maybe even hungry to feed?"

A long silence from the corner. The red light glowed brighter for a moment, then swept off to one side and disappeared; stubbed out, he guessed by the movement. He heard Sebastian sigh, then the man rose to his feet and walked closer, into the circle of light.

Anders frowned Sebastian looked... different. His hair was mussed, his clerical collar undone, his eyes twinkling brightly, with a broad smile on his face; far more cheerful than Anders could ever recall seeing him.

Anders tensed as Sebastian drew closer; he'd never been able to bring himself to like the man, not when he knew Sebastian had been born to privilege, a son of one of the rich and powerful families who controlled the country, bought off the politicians, told the police what and what not to see or enforce. Sure, his family was almost all dead now – all save Sebastian – killed off by a rival faction of his own family, the rumour was, their riches and power all gone to some distant cousin. Sebastian himself had been involved with the Underground for years; he'd never seen eye-to-eye with his family, and they'd never approved of his lifestyle, neither before nor after he'd joined the church.

Anders suspected his motives; worried, always, that Sebastian was a spy for the powers that be. Seeing the way Sebastian was smiling at him now only made him worry all the more, feeling certain that whatever made the man so cheerful couldn't be anything he particularly care for.

"I was thinking, tonight, what a lonely job this is that we do, you and I and the others," Sebastian said, stopping just a foot away from Anders, head tilting slightly at one side. "Perhaps less lonely for you than for I – I've seen the way everyone watches you. The offers you get, from our colleagues and students alike. You could have a different body in your bed every night if you wished, couldn't you?" he asked, sounding more curious than challenging.

"So what if I could?" Anders asked. "I don't – it's too dangerous."

"Truly?" Sebastian asked, sounding mildly surprised. "I've missed it. Being promiscuous, I mean. I went through quite a phase of it in my youth; just one of the many things about me that earned my father's ire. Since you came here and started teaching, last year... I must admit I've felt more than a little jealous, once or twice, seeing how everyone flocked around you."

"Wanting the attention yourself?" Anders asked, putting aside his half-empty mug, worried about where the situation might be heading, and preferring to have his hands free in case it came to a fight.

"No," Sebastian said, then took a half step closer and leaned forwards, hands coming to rest braced on the edge of the counter to either side of Anders, his face just inches away. "Wanting you," he whispered.

Anders was so shocked – Sebastian's words being the last thing he would ever have guessed – that he froze, just standing there staring at the other man. Sebastian paused for just the slightest moment, tongue licking nervously over his lips, then leaned forward, slowly.

He could have moved. He _should_ have moved; have avoided the kiss. But instead Anders stood frozen, unmoving until Sebastian's lips brushed lightly against his. Stood still even then, too surprised by the other man's words and actions to react at first, and then... and then he shivered, mouth dropping open as he moaned softly, just once, stunned by how _good_ the kiss felt, every movement of Sebastian's lips against his seeming to send a shock straight down his spine and into his cock. A long time, since his last kiss from anyone; too long, since Karl had died a half-dozen years before.

Sebastian seemed to take his moan as permission – and perhaps it was. The man moved closer, pressing up against Anders, pushing him back against the counter edge, one hand rising to cup his cheek, the other bracing against the upper cabinets. The kiss deepened, lengthened. It seemed peculiarly intense, as if Sebastian's only focus was on the kiss, on how their lips and tongues met and mingled.

He started feeling lightheaded as the kisses went on and on, but not so lightheaded that he missed noticing when Sebastian's hands rose to his collar, and began undoing his shirt buttons one by one. He might have protested, then, but he was hard and horny and Sebastian's thigh was pressed just right between his legs, the man's tongue deep in his mouth. All he could do was moan softly as his chest was bared, and fingers stroked over the planes of his chest, finding and tweaking at his nipples.

Then Sebastian stopped kissing his mouth, and begin working his way lower. He worked his way down Anders' throat, stopping near the base to suck hard, hard enough to leave a visible mark Anders was sure. Then lower yet, licking and nipping his way down to one nipple, then over to the other. He went back and forth between them for a couple of minutes, nibbling and sucking, teasing and licking, then dropped to his knees. Sebastian's tongue circled the indent of Anders' belly button while his hands unfastened his jeans, tugging jeans and underwear both partway down Anders' thighs before he leaned further down and to the side, head turning so that he could lick at Anders' erection, then mouth along the underside of it, his tongue tracing wet circles against it within the circle of his lips.

Anders leaned back, bracing his palms against the counter-top, moaning at the feeling of the other man's mouth on his cock, of tongue and lips and occasionally just a touch of teeth. He tried to stay silent, knowing that others might still be there in the darkened school, but found it more and more difficult to do so when Sebastian's mouth closed around his tip, his tongue tracing wetly around it and tonguing at the slit in the end. Silence became harder yet as the man swallowed and took him in deep with an expertise he would never have believed that Sebastian might possess.

He jammed his own forearm in his mouth to muffle his cries of pleasure as Sebastian swallowed a couple of times before slowly pulling back his head, taking a single deep breath through his nose before swallowing him down again. Again and again he repeated the cycle; drawing back, throat and tongue working against Anders' length, then a deep inhale through his nose while his tongue teased at the tip, then down deep once more, with repeated swallows before he slow withdrew again.

The feeling of it was unbearably pleasurable, fluttering tongue and hot tight moistness and the flex of muscles tightening around him over and over again. Staying silent, staying still were almost impossible, the flex of his hips controlled only by Sebastian's firm grip on his thighs, the cries from his mouth stifled only by interposing his own flesh. He had to bite down hard on his arm to mute the scream that wanted to burst free as he finally came into Sebastian's mouth, an orgasm that left him weak-kneed and shaken with its intensity, leaning heavily on the counter for support.

Sebastian rose to his feet looking pleased with himself, almost smug, licking at his lips even as his hands carefully pulled Anders' underwear back up, tucking him gently back into place before pulling his jeans up as well, then buttoned both them and Anders' shirt. Anders just stared at him, uncertain what to do... what to say. What _could _you do or say when a man you distrusted and didn't particularly like gave you the most spectacular blow-job you'd ever had in your life?

Sebastian smiled slightly, lifting one hand to brush the back of his fingers against Anders' chin. "You have no idea how long I've been wanting to do that, do you?" he asked, brogue even thicker than usual, voice warm with affection. He grinned boyishly, before turning and walking away.

Anders said nothing, just leaned there against the counter, listening to Sebastian's footsteps fade away down the deserted hallways.


	2. Sebastian and Cullen

Sebastian sat back in his chair, watching Anders watch Hawke. He felt, as he often did, a faint regret that the two of them had never gotten any closer. It had looked like something might happen after their little encounter in the staff room; Anders had at least become a little less confrontational around him, he'd even caught the man giving him a speculative look a time or two.

But then Hawke had arrived, and everything had changed. Varric had named her only as a refugee from events in the south when he'd warned them that he'd be bringing a guest to their next meeting. The moment she'd stepped in the door... Sebastian fought back a smile, remembering that moment. She had the same sort of eye-catching self-assurance and room-filling presence as any top-end predator. You had no question that she knew how to use the long knives strapped to each leg, half-hidden under the fall of her worn leather coat. That she _had_ used them, when she'd had to. Her eyes were intense, clearly seeing every least detail as they swept around the room; she had what Sebastian later vaguely remembered his grandfather as once describing as_ situational awareness_ – a deep, near-instinctive grasp of everything going on in her surroundings, including what way things were likely to change or move. The sweep of her eyes as she took in their little group had only stopped once, pausing for a beat as she looked over Anders, and then had swept on.

Within days the pair of them were quite clearly A Thing, and that was that.

He sometimes wondered which of them he was more jealous of; Hawke, for having snapped up Anders before Sebastian had ever really had a chance with him, or Anders, for having Hawke. She was a very impressive woman, after all. Not traditionally beautiful, but certainly striking, with pale blue eyes standing out starkly against her dusky skin, a strong chin, and curly dark hair that she usually had caught up in a messy roll to keep it out of her face. Strong, too, her curves due more to muscles than any softer padding. It was always a surprise to realize how short she actually was; the way she carried herself, you half-expected her to loom over you, to be six feet tall, not five foot nothing. What she lacked in height she most definitely made up for in determination and personality. And skill; she had a knack for seeing the opportunities within problems, the risks within plans. Before the first month was out, she'd pretty much taken over leadership of their group, and they'd been better for it.

He realized she'd just said his name, and looked up. "Yes, Hawke?"

"I've got a new contact I'll be sending your way; you're respectable enough that he can safely be seen talking to you. See me after the meeting, and I'll tell you how to recognize him when he shows up."

Sebastian nodded, and then as she turned to speak to Varric, returned to only paying partial attention to the meeting. He found himself wondering who this new contact was, and why he required a 'respectable' connection into the underground.

* * *

It was almost a full week later before he finally found out. He'd begun to think that Hawke's new contact wasn't going to show up after all – that happened occasionally, someone getting cold feet after first contacting the underground – and then late one afternoon, he did.

Sebastian was at the little chantry he maintained in the basement of an old three-story brick office building. Built somewhere early in the previous century, its yellow brick art deco style looked dingy and dated now. He had three rooms there; a small windowless closet of an office, with a sagging old couch along one wall where he sometimes slept when he'd been working particularly late, and an even smaller and equally windowless bathroom, with the original art deco porcelain fixtures and flooring of white and black hexagonal glass tiles. The biggest room, the worship hall, had a row of tiny wire-covered windows along the top of the wall, looking out at ground level of the alleyway where the worn concrete stairs leading down to the recessed doorway was, and letting in only the faintest of light. There was just enough light coming in today that he hadn't bothered turning on the fluorescent lighting – old hanging fixtures that buzzed annoyingly, and were getting increasingly difficult to find replacement tubes for – and was instead washing the worn linoleum floor by the faint light from the windows and open door.

He heard the scuff of steps on the stairs just moments before the light was dimmed by someone coming to a stop in the opened doorway. He looked up, squinting a little but unable to make them out, back-lit by the fading sunlight outside as they were, other than that they were male, a little sorter than he, and had short, combed-back hair.

"You're Brother Sebastian?" A pleasant voice, at least.

"Yes. May I help you?" He set aside the mop, standing it up in the bucket. "Come in if you'd like; careful, the floor is wet."

The figure grunted and nodded in acknowledgement, and moved into the room. The slicked-back hair proved to be an unremarkable brownish-blond colour, the eyes – hidden behind mirrored sunglasses at first – revealed to be a shade of equally unremarkable brown. He wore a beat-up old brown leather jacket hanging open over a plain white tshirt, brown leather work boots – equally well-worn – and well-creased faded blue jeans that clung to slim hips and muscular thighs like a second skin. He dressed and had the wide-shoulders form of some sort of worker – docks, construction, something that involved heavy lifting – but there was something about him that screamed 'cop' to Sebastian. Only long practise at hiding his reactions kept him from tensing.

"I was told to come here if I needed someone to talk to; someone who'd understand my very particular problems," the man said, and now Sebastian _did_ tense; the wording Hawke had told him to listen for.

"I help those I can, though not all problems are ones that I can address."

"And those you can't help?"

"Why, I pray to a higher power, and trust in the Maker's way."

The man's eyebrows rose slightly, and he turned to look pointedly at the other end of the room, where a small statue of Andraste stood on a cheap plaster plinth. "The Maker? I was told this was a chantry of the Cult of Andraste?"

"Ah. You follow the Maker though, do you not? We Andrastrians also follow Him. We are a sub-sect of the Church of the Maker, not a separate cult."

The man made a somewhat dubious humming sound.

"But come," Sebastian continued, and gestured to the door to his office. "You said you wished to talk. Join me in my office, if you'd like. Or we can talk out here, if you prefer."

The man visibly wavered, then shrugged. "Out here is fine."

Sebastian nodded, and walked over to where the folding chairs were stacked out of the way of his cleaning, taking two and carrying them over to where the man stood, watching. He held one out. "Please, be seated," he said, and once the man had taken one, opened the other and sat down himself. "Might I know your name?"

The man sat, studying him intently for a moment, then gave a small shrug. "Cullen will do," he said, and then smiled, a very small, sardonic smile. "I'm a cop."

"So I'd guessed," Sebastian said softly, and when the man's eyebrows rose again, "Something about your stance; the way you looked around the room on entering, to see who and what was here."

Cullen frowned. "You're observant."

"I have to be. Now, you had something you wished to tell me?"

"Yeah. Let Hawke know that the Commander has heard rumours, and suspects where she'll be this weekend and what she'll be doing when she's there. It's going to be a trap."

That startled Sebastian, for two reason – 'the Commander' could only refer to one person, Commander Meredith Stannard of the Templars, the leader of the local branch of the state's not-very-secret Secret Police. For Cullen to know what he'd just said... he must be high in their organization. _Very_ high, possibly even working directly under the Commander's orders. Small wonder Hawke had looked so self-satisfied when mentioning her _new contact_.

"I will pass the word on," Sebastian said quietly.

"Good," Cullen said, then settled back in his chair, arms crossing, looking Sebastian over from head to toe. "You're not what I expected," he said.

Now it was Sebastian's turn to raise his eyebrows. "Oh? And what did you expect, then?"

"Someone older, I guess. And given the address, maybe a bit more... ragged. Not..." he stop, and gestured at Sebastian.

Sebastian glanced down at what he was wearing – the grey open-front cassock traditional to the priesthood of Andraste, over matching grey slacks and a dark red shirt, with the intricately interwoven grey cummerbund that marked his priesthood around his waist, and a red and gold sash wrapped over top holding the cassock in place. Gold cord was applied to the front of the shirt and the shoulders of the cassock in the sunburst pattern that Andrastrian's felt was sacred to the Maker – the source of all light – and the hem and cuffs of the cassock all trimmed with the same cord. Having performed a particularly important chant earlier that day – it was the anniversary of Andraste's landing in the north, and a therefor a day for special celebration – he was wearing his best robes, the slacks and cassock of fine grey wool, the shirt and sashes of silk, the set of them a gift some years before from one of his more affluent parishioners, since passed on.

He smiled, amused. "I should have changed out of these before I began washing the floor," he said. "My best set. I do not always dress so finely; we are not a rich sect, and this is a very minor chantry within it, as you can see," he said, gesturing at the shabby room surrounding him.

Cullen's head tipped thoughtfully to one side. "I thought all Andrastrian priests were female."

"Most are," Sebastian agreed. "I, as you can see, am not."

Cullen blew air softly out his nose when Sebastian did not explain further, then abruptly rose to his feet. "I should be going. I'll be back when I have any further little problems to tell you about."

"Of course," Sebastian agreed, and rose as well, seeing him to the door and closing it behind him. He switched on the fluorescents, and looked around the room, then headed to his office to change. Classes at the college tonight; he'd tell Hawke then.

* * *

Cullen didn't appear again until almost two weeks later, when a mid-morning service was just starting. He took a place among Sebastian's handful of mostly-elderly parishioners as if he belonged there, even making a half-decent show of singing along with the chants. Sebastian had to rescue him from one of them afterwards, a kindly old lady who was half-deaf and loved talking to anyone who'd stand still for it. She actually had some quite interesting stories to tell, if you had the patience for it – she was from the south originally, and had fought in the resistance there in her youth, before marrying into a northern family – but unfortunately she was not very good at telling them, a situation exacerbated by the droning monotone of her voice. Sebastian often wondered if she had always spoken so flatly, or if it was a side effect of her deafness. He gently distracted her, and passed her off to one of her equally aged friends, the two already lost in reminiscences of better times before they were out of earshot.

"Thank you," Cullen said, looking amused.

Sebastian smiled thinly as he shut the door. "You're welcome. Would you like to sit?" he asked, gesturing at the scattering of chairs.

"No, I was sitting most of the morning. I'd rather be on my feet," Cullen said, and leaned against the wall, arms folding across his chest.

Sebastian nodded. "Do you mind if I clean up while we talk? I have commitments for later this afternoon..."

"At that college you teach at?" Cullen asked.

Sebastian could not help himself; he froze for a moment in straightening the chair, shocked that Cullen knew of the college. "Yes," he finally said, guardedly.

Cullen smiled crookedly. "I was curious about you. You didn't seem anything like what I expected a hardened revolutionary to be. Nor a priest, for that matter."

Sebastian glanced at him, then resumed tidying the rows of chairs, bending down to pick up a tissue someone had dropped on the floor, and carrying it over to the waste basket by the door by one corner. "So you looked into who I was, and why I am here, then."

"Yes. At least the who you were part. Not just Brother Sebastian, but Sebastian _Vael_, third son of the late Conrad Vael, of the _Starkhaven Shipping_ Vaels," Cullen said, a note of distaste creeping into his voice. "Pretty high up in the plutocracy, as these things go. You should be worth millions, possibly even billions, even as a mere third son, and since the death of your father and elder siblings you should _be_ Starkhaven Shipping, as far as I've been able to make out. And yet..." And he spread his hands, gesturing at the dingy little room around them, looking pointedly at Sebastian's robes – far from his best robes today, instead an older set, faded from washings and showing wear at the seams – eyebrows raising as if to ask why. "I fail to understand why you are _here_, Messere Vael."

Sebastian paused, and just looked at him for a long moment, then shrugged slightly, moving to the front of the room to carefully pinch out the thick red candles arranged in banks on a stair-stepped rack on a table beside Andraste's plinth. "A long story."

"I have time."

"But I do not. The college, as already mentioned. Did you not have a problem you wished to speak to me about?"

"Yes. But from where I stand, currently the problem is _you_. Hawke trusts you, clearly. I don't know if I do," Cullen said.

Sebastian paused in the act of pinching out the tallest candle, then turned and looked thoughtfully at Cullen. "Something has frightened you. Something... other than myself."

"Perhaps," Cullen agreed, then straightened up and moved a few steps closer. He was between Sebastian and the door, Sebastian noticed, and one hand was out of sight; near or holding some weapon, he was suddenly sure. They locked eyes for a long moment, then Sebastian turned away, and pinched out the last candle.

"Very well. I will need to call in sick, or the others will fear that something untoward has happened to me."

"_Untoward_. Maker, the way you speak..."

Sebastian's eyebrows rose slightly. "The way I speak is the way I speak. I have never seen any need to change it for my audience."

"I'll want to listen while you call."

"In case I mean to summon help to deal with you? Certainly. Come, then, though I tell you in advance that I will be using several code words in order to assure those I speak with that I am not under any duress, and not in need of any rescue."

Cullen grimaced, but nodded. "I suppose I should have expected that."

It was Merrill who answered the phone. He had to say the initial code words twice before she recognized what he'd said, and then rather than dealing with it herself she hurried off, leaving the phone off the hook, so that he heard the fading sound of her footsteps, and her distantly calling for Isabela to come take his call.

Isabela asked just the right questions, of course, and he used the right innocuous sounding phrases in return. "All right, I'll cover for you this afternoon," she said finally, sounding amused. "But I'll want the full story of what's keeping you away later. As, I'm sure, will Hawke."

"Of course," he said, and looked over at Cullen, who was standing by the door looking distinctly uneasy, having only been able to hear Sebastian's end of the conversation and unable to tell if the phrases he'd used were the promised safe codes, or rescue codes instead. He set down the handset, then smiled thinly at the man. "If you'd prefer to go elsewhere, that would be acceptable to me."

Cullen stiffened for a moment, then slowly relaxed, nodding thoughtfully. "Since you offer... yes, I'd prefer it."

"May I change first? These robes are not exactly non-descript," he pointed out.

"All right," Cullen agreed, and Sebastian opened the tiny closet in one corner of the room where he stored his robes, taking out his street clothes and vanishing into the bathroom to quickly change into them. A cream-coloured tshirt, well-worn blue jeans, a faded black hoodie and steel-toed brown work-boots not much different than the pair Cullen himself was wearing transformed him; no longer so obviously Brother Sebastian, instead just anyone you might pass on any street in this area of the city.

Cullen looked him over and nodded approval of the change before leading the way out of the building, Sebastian pausing only to properly lock the door behind them before following him up the stairs to street level. They walked several blocks, Cullen leading them on a twisting path that was clearly meant to confuse or detect any possible pursuit, though as well as Sebastian knew the neighbourhood, he himself knew perfectly well where they were when Cullen finally led the way into a noisy bar several blocks away. A bar known more for the quantity and variety of its scantily clad entertainment than for the drinks or the very limited range of foods that were served.

Sebastian stood and watched the rather amazingly flexible young woman dancing on stage while Cullen leaned over the bar, talking quietly to the owner. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the flash of money changing hands, then Cullen was back at his side again. "This way," he said, and led off again, out through a door that normally only staff was allowed to use, and down a narrow cinderblock-walled hallway, then through another door into a poorly lit stairwell and up several flights of stairs.

The hallway they emerged in was only slightly fancier than the one they'd been in downstairs; still narrow, but with the floor covered in well-worn green carpeting, the walls covered in dark wood wainscoting to waist height, with yellow-painted plaster above, seamed with cracks and flaking loose to reveal older coats of paint in varying shades of also-yellow. Light fixtures were few, and either dim or missing bulbs entirely. By the way Cullen walked, he knew the place well; he led them down the corridor, around a corner where it crossed with an identical one, and to an unmarked door, opening it and gesturing for Sebastian to step inside first.

A small room, the floor covered in the same green carpet as out in the hallway, though less worn. A futon couch with a large rag rug draped over it stood under the lone window, and a pair of chairs made when the future was thought to be full of plastic curves in primary colours were arranged against the opposite wall. A short bookcase of woodgrain-patterned melamine-covered particleboard stood in one corner, with an old boom-box style radio perched on top, a collection of seemingly random books on the shelves; dog-eared paperbacks, mostly, the spines well-wrinkled and pages puffed out and curly-edged from reading, along with a few hardcovers, the covers almost falling off from wear. The room had a bit of a musty, musky odour to it.

"Charming place," Sebastian said.

Cullen smiled crookedly. "At least it's private. And very well soundproofed. Have a seat," he said, gesturing at the chairs, and walked over to where an elderly bar fridge sat in the corner opposite from the shelves. "You drink?"

"Sometimes," Sebastian said. "What's on offer?"

"Beer, beer, or beer."

"In that case, I'll have a beer. Thank you," he said, as Cullen tossed a can his direction. He sat down in one of the two chairs, cautiously opening the can and quickly sipping at the foam that bubbled out. It wasn't bad; not a particularly good brand either, but drinkable.

Cullen opened a can for himself, then walked over and dropped down to sit on the futon, slouching back with every appearance of comfort. "So... explain it to me. What is a Vael doing in the underground?"

Sebastian smiled crookedly, and took another sip of his beer before answering. "What we're all doing. Fighting against injustice. Trying to loosen the grip the plutocracy has on this country."

"Even though you're a member of the plutocracy?"

"_Was_ a member. Being born to privilege does not make me blind to injustice, though I can understand why people might believe it does, considering how many of my peers – ex-peers – are wilfully blind."

"And you passed up on inheriting your family's fortune because...? Why? It wouldn't enable you to help enough people?"

"It was never a choice I had," Sebastian said, and look down at the can in his hand, turning it slowly around and around, his fingernail tracing the seam between top piece and body. "My father and I were often at loggerheads during my adolescence. We did not agree on anything, and he saw me as one of the great disappointments of his life. Then, later in my teens... well, he disapproved greatly of my lifestyle, and of my growing interest in the Andrastrian sect. He was a conservative sort; all for the Maker, of course, but he looked poorly upon a sect who idolized a woman who'd successfully revolted against the tyrants of her age, even if it had all been done in His name and to His glory. In the end I entered one of their seminaries, and father formally disinherited me. As far as he was concerned, I was no longer any part of the Vael family."

"And then he died."

"Was killed," Sebastian quietly corrected, looking up and across the Cullen. "Murdered, he and my mother and my brothers and, I have heard, quite a selection of near cousins as well. And now my cousin Goren Vael is the family head, and lives in the family mansion in Starkhaven, and owns all the family properties and companies, the shipping and so forth, that once were my father's. I, for whatever reason, was not killed; possibly because I was disinherited and could not inherit anyway, possibly just that I was forgotten."

Cullen sat quietly studying him, frowning slightly while sipping at his beer for several minutes before speaking again. "And you never tried to challenge your disinheritance?"

Sebastian's eyebrows rose slightly. "And put myself in the sights of some assassin's gun? No, I did not. I would not, in any case; I am... content, with what I have, and satisfied by the work I do, and merely hope that some day we will manage to overturn the system that has had men like my father and cousin living fat on the work on the desperate poor for so long now. Over half our populace living in conditions of servitude that are a legal quibble away from outright slavery, and a good-sized chunk of the remainder incarcerated not for anything they have done, but for who they are; what they were born as."

Cullen made a thoughtful sound, and just sat there studying him again. Sebastian merely sipped his own beer, waiting for whatever his next question was.

"Why didn't your father like your lifestyle? Were you involved with revolutionaries even then?"

"No, or rather not at first; that came later," Sebastian said, and smiled wryly. "I was involved in even worse, as least far as a hoary old conservative like my father was concerned. I was consorting with men. And plenty of women too, sometimes both at the same time, but it was the sleeping with men part that he found particularly distasteful. It wouldn't have been so bad if I'd just been fucking some pretty little elf occasionally – everyone does that, he said. But I was letting myself be fucked by other men, and that he could not tolerate in any son of his."

He took a certain pleasure in seeing how Cullen flushed with embarrassment over his blunt words. As a follower of the Maker, Cullen was likely a good part as conservative as Sebastian's father had been, at least in certain matters.

"And, err... after you entered the priesthood? He was still concerned?"

"What...? Oh, we're not celibate. Not unless we want to be, anyway," Sebastian said.

"Ah," Cullen said, looking distinctly uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken. He shifted position slightly, then took another quick drink of his beer before resuming his questioning. "Tell me about some of the things that made you decide to become a revolutionary; some of the things that your privilege didn't blind you to, as you put it."

Sebastian smiled. "I'll need a second beer. As I said, it's a long story," he said, and rose to fetch a can himself. "And not a very pretty one. Another for you?"

"No, thank you," Cullen said, lifting his own can slightly. "I still have plenty."

Sebastian nodded, and resumed his seat, then cast his mind back, and began to speak.

* * *

It was dark out; had been dark for some time now, Cullen having had to switch on the overhead light an hour or two ago. At some point he'd stopped worry that the priest was a risk; the stories he'd told were too raw, his hatred of the injustices he'd been witness to too clear. Despite Sebastian's high birth, Cullen was – perhaps a little reluctantly – willing to accept that he was as much a revolutionary as the rest of them.

He finished his beer – only his second, he'd been nursing it all evening – and sat there, just looking at the man. Calm and collected despite the danger he must have known he was in, if his answers hadn't satisfied Cullen. And speaking without the least slurring or hint of mental confusion, despite the three or four beers he'd had. Not to mention studying Cullen in turn; covertly, in little repeated glances, but trained to observe details and body language as he was, Cullen couldn't miss the way he was being looked at. The way those little glances sometimes _lingered_.

It made Cullen feel more than a little self-conscious. It didn't help at all when Sebastian' words kept returning to his thoughts – "_I was letting myself be fucked by other men, and that he could not tolerate_" – and the accompanying mental images which were... disturbing. Though not distasteful; far from that.

It had been so long since he'd last dared to sleep with anyone; a lover was a danger. A lover was a weakness. He'd learned that the hard way, when a particularly bloody-minded group of so-called revolutionaries had captured him. Mages, planning to replace the plutocrats with their own magisters instead, changing one bad choice of state leadership for another. There'd been a girl, part of the group taken along with him... she hadn't even been his lover, though she'd tried to flirt with him a bit, once or twice, well before they were captured. Against the rules, of course, since she was a mage, and he'd always turned her down. But he'd liked her. Someone in their group had known; someone had told their captors. They hadn't approved; he still sometimes had nightmares of what they'd done to her, to show just how much they disapproved of a mage wanting to consort with one of the Templars. And they'd made him watch, because they could.

Rescue had, eventually, come for him, though too late for the mages that had been in his charge. At first he'd thought it had come too late for him as well; that he would have been better off dying there, unrescued. A long time in therapy, before he'd stopped thinking that. An even longer time before he had been declared fit for duty again, and then the fact that he'd ever even needed therapy had changed how others looked at him, treated him, what assignments he was trusted with.

It had been years afterwards before he could ever bring himself to sleep with anyone, and that had been a brief and unsatisfactory relationship, and ended when he'd been transferred north. Though he'd learned a lot during it; a lot about himself, mostly. A lot about what he did or didn't enjoy doing with a partner, a lot about what he didn't enjoy having done to him. Sitting here looking at Sebastian, at the way his broad shoulder and slim hips filled out his clothes, at his beautifully manicured hands, his expressive face, Cullen could think only of the words _letting myself be fucked_, and of everything he himself would want to do to such a fine specimen.

His mouth had gone dry, just thinking about it, his palms slightly moist. He resisted the urge to wipe them dry on his jeans, and found himself really wishing for a third beer, and certain that such would be a bad idea. Though not as bad an idea as the ones currently going through his head, all centred on the oh-so-calm man seated across from him, and on how much he'd like to render him anything but calm.

"Is there anything else you'd like to ask?" Sebastian asked softly. He had a beautiful voice; deep, cultured, smooth.

Cullen gave a small shake of his head. "No," he said, though he wished he dared say yes, dared ask... But no. "All right. I'm satisfied that you are trustworthy."

Sebastian smiled. "I am pleased to hear that, of course," he said, and then looked questioningly at Cullen. "Might I know what had you so worried? It was clearly more than just knowledge of my past."

Cullen frowned, then shook his head. "No. Though do let Hawke know I need to speak with her directly, as soon as she can arrange a safe meet-up. I have news that I trust to her ears only."

"All right," Sebastian said agreeably, seeming not at all affronted at not being trusted with the news Cullen had for Hawke. "Are you done? May I go?"

"Yeah, go ahead," Cullen said, and remained seated where he was, watching the other man rise and leave, unable to quite stop himself from admiring the view as Sebastian walked out the door, shutting it quietly behind him. He remained seated where he was for a few minutes, then muttered a curse and got up and got himself that third beer, sitting down in the plastic chair this time, still a little warm from Sebastian having sat there.

He really should ask Hawke for a different contact. Except every additional person in the underground who knew his face was a danger, and he was at least reasonably certain that Sebastian wasn't. Or at least not the same sort of danger.

He stayed where he was for half an hour, and when he left, it wasn't by the way he'd come.

* * *

Cullen appeared at intermittent intervals after that, sometimes only days apart, sometimes weeks, usually arriving at the chantry just after services, while Sebastian was still tidying up. Sebastian found himself looking forward to his brief appearances, even though they often heralded problems for their cell, or for others. Even knowing something was going to be a trap didn't mean they could always avoid it; in fact it would have been dangerous for them to do so, making it too obvious that there was a high-level leak. And so they had, more than once, to purposefully step into such traps, to trust on their planning for it to get them safely back out again. Or come up with a plausible reason for why they changed their plans, something the Templars could accept that wouldn't shout "_they knew!_" at them.

Occasionally, he encountered Cullen elsewhere; passing him in the aisle of the grocery store; finding him standing beside him at a crosswalk as he waited for the light to change; standing in line behind him waiting to get to the lone still-working ATM at the bank. He would wait until he was somewhere unobserved, and then check his pockets, or anything he'd been carrying. Sometimes there was a note with more news for Hawke; usually there was not. That was part of Cullen's pattern; that he didn't see Sebastian only when he had news to pass on, but sometimes, randomly, for no reason at all, so that if anyone was watching him, there would be no apparent match-up between their meetings and the rebels once more avoiding or breaking out of some planned trap.

Sebastian found himself thinking about Cullen occasionally. His swept-back hair. His eyes, which he'd now been close enough once – jammed face to face beside each other on the streetcar – to know were not just brown, but brown with lighter gold streaks around the pupil, and flecks of green. The way he smiled, on the rare occasions when he did. The way he filled out his clothes, the compact muscularity of him; he was at least half a head shorter than Sebastian, and even broader in the shoulder, with thicker thighs and calves and arms. He must work out, Sebastian had decided, and wondered if he did so because he enjoyed doing so, or did so merely in order to keep himself looking like the sort of man he was pretending to be.

Not just pretended, but sometimes _was_; he'd spotted Cullen once, working at a construction site, wearing jeans and workboots and a hard hat and gloves, but no shirt, pushing a wheelbarrow full of wet cement along a plank walkway across the churned dirt of the site. Sebastian's steps had faltered for a moment, as he'd stared at the other man, sweat beading on suntanned skin, and thought... really quite inappropriate things, actually, given the nature of their relationship. And realized, as he continued on his way, that he was smitten. It would have been funny – him, with a crush on a Templar! – if it wasn't so painful. Everything about the two of them together was just so impossible and wrong.

And yet...

Being as aware of Cullen as he'd now become, he could not help but notice how Cullen watched _him_. Not that he did it often, but sometimes, when they were talking and Cullen was actually relaxed instead of at his more usual high pitch of on-edge tension, his eyes would settle on Sebastian and stay there. Not focused on Sebastian's face, but elsewhere; his shoulders, his legs, his hands. Most often his hands, so that when Sebastian spoke, his hands unconsciously gesturing along with his words, he could see the way Cullen's eyes followed them, the way he'd lick or chew his lips as he watched them move. See, too, the faint flush that would sometimes colour his cheeks, note the way his breathing changed. The way he'd have to shift, sometimes, to ease the pressure of tight denim across his crotch.

Sebastian wasn't sure at first if the other man was even aware of his own interest. Was he as conservative as Sebastian had believed, his desires closeted and ignored, or... was he aware. Was he, perhaps, even experienced...?

He knew it was unwise, and yet he could not stop himself from beginning a very subtle testing of the waters, an almost subliminal flirtation. Careful glances, avoiding Cullen's eyes some times, meeting them at others. Studying some particularly attractive aspect of him, and then flicking a glance at his face, to see if Cullen had noticed, and how he was reacting if he had. Letting his fingers brush against Cullen's as he accepted a can of beer from his hand, then moments later, licking a spill of beer foam off the side of his thumb, eyes purposefully meeting Cullen's as he did so. Moving closer or further away; standing when Cullen was sitting, sitting when he was standing. He was not entirely surprised by what seemed to pique the Templar's interest, and against his better judgement – though when it came to Cullen, he suspected he was rapidly losing any judgement at all – tested a little further.

More than just a crush, he eventually decided. An obsession. And not a safe one.

* * *

Sebastian was washing the floor when Cullen entered the room. Not with a mop, as he usually did, but on his hands and knees, with a scrub brush, wearing jeans and a tshirt that had once been white but was now the borderline beigey-grey of something that had been through too many wash cycles with colours, and far too long since it had last been in the vicinity of bleach. He had, at some point, gotten water on it, a large patch of the front clinging in tight translucent wrinkles to his stomach as he sat up. He did not rise to his feet, but remained there on his knees, looking up and smiling welcomingly.

A smile Cullen had come to look forward to seeing. He could not stop himself from staring for a moment, taking in the way the tshirt – shrunken, or bought when Sebastian was a size or two smaller - clung to the muscled form underneath. Or the way Sebastian's hair was mussed, having fallen forward around his face from working bent over. Or the flush in his face from said work; perhaps even from something more, Cullen thought, and took a half-step closer before he could quite stop himself, standing looking down at the man and liking the view.

"Further news for Hawke?" Sebastian asked, sounding entirely innocent, though the way his eyes flicked downwards from Cullen's face to a much lower point and _lingered_, before slowly rising back up, was anything but innocent.

"No," Cullen said. "Not today."

Sebastian nodded. "Then I'll continue, if you don't mind," he said, and picked back up the scrub brush, leaning back down with his weight balanced on one hand, attacking the narrow joins between the linoleum tiles as if the faint darker line of dirt caught between them personally offended him. Cullen moved out of his way, picking up one of the folding chairs from the stack in the corner and opening it to sit down. He had, he couldn't help noticing, a particularly fine view of Sebastian's ass from where he was sitting, and found himself staring at it for a long moment before forcing his eyes elsewhere, thankfully before Sebastian twisted around to look back over his shoulder at Cullen.

"There's beer in the cupboard in my office if you want one. Warm, but given this heat..."

"Thanks, maybe later," he said. Sebastian nodded and turned back to his work, using a cloth to wipe dry the section of floor he'd just cleaned, then moving to one side and beginning to scrub at a new section. "You're very meticulous," Cullen said, watching him. "Cleaning the cracks between the tiles? Most people wouldn't bother."

Sebastian shrugged, which made the damp material still clinging to his stomach finally pull loose and hang free. Cullen found himself wanting to slide his hand into the gap it made, touch the skin there, wondering what it felt like; warm, from all the work, or a little cool, from the dampness evaporating?

"I like to do a job properly. I am not this thorough with every cleansing, but I do like to do it occasionally," Sebastian said as he continued work, and fell silent briefly. "It is a good feeling, when it is done, even if it does take extra work. The Maker is in the details, they say."

Cullen found himself grinning. "I doubt that when they say that they're referring to dirty floors."

"Perhaps not," Sebastian agreed, and sat up for a moment, pushing his hair back from his face with one hand before turning to look at Cullen again. "And yet if we ignore the small messes, the minor faults, can they not in time become bigger problems? Perhaps not this little line of dirt," he said, stroking one fingertip along a dark seam by his leg. "But as a more general rule."

Cullen grunted. "True," he admitted, only a little reluctantly.

Sebastian smiled, that same warm smile with which he'd greeted Cullen. "Then I think it is wise to pay attention, at least occasionally, to such minor details, whether or not they seem to require it."

Cullen snorted, then fell silent, just watching Sebastian work. Sebastian did not seem bothered by his silence, glancing Cullen's direction occasionally but saying nothing himself.

"I'll go put a couple of those beers to cool," Cullen said when Sebastian was nearing the end of the work, and rose to his feet.

"A good idea," Sebastian said, smiling at him from behind a fall of sweat-soaked hair in a way that gave Cullen gooseflesh.

The beer was easy to find, an open case in the bottom of the closet full of Sebastian's robes. He kept more than one change of street clothing there was well, Cullen noticed, and fingered the sleeve of a very nice suit in charcoal grey wool before bending down to take a couple of bottles out of the case. A good beer, he noticed, from a local micro-brewery, not the mass-produced canned stuff that Cullen himself usually bought and drank. He carried them into the little bathroom, filling the sink with cold water and then carefully standing the bottles in it.

He snuck a peek in the little mirrored-door medicine cabinet above the sink; one of his instructors had always said you could learn a lot about a person by what they kept in one. Perhaps the one wherever Sebastian lived was more informative; this one said very little, holding only an unopened box of assorted sized bandages, a toothbrush, a half-used tube of wintergreen toothpaste, a razor, a small can of unscented shaving cream, a bottle of aspirin, and a black plastic comb.

He glanced around the little room, taking note of the shower stall in one corner, the thread-bare bright yellow towel hanging on a railing beside it, a well-used bar of soap in the holder inside. Noticing too that Sebastian had obviously done some cleaning in here recently as well; the elderly grout between the ceramic tiles on the wall and the glass tiles on the floor was almost white, and there was a faint hint of bleach underlying the scents of soap and toothpaste and bathroom.

Cullen returned to the office to find Sebastian just walking in the door from the main room, stripping off his damp tshirt over his head as he did so. Sebastian smiled at him again, tossing the shirt over the back of his desk chair as he walked over to the closet. "If you don't mind, I'm just going to take a quick shower and change," he said. "That was sweaty work."

Cullen nodded. "That's fine," he agreed, and moved aside out of the bathroom door. "I'll just wait here."

Sebastian nodded, and vanished into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Cullen, after only a brief hesitation, took a seat. He was tempted to search Sebastian's desk, more out of curiosity than of any belief that he might find anything that would change his mind about how trustworthy the man was. More out of habit, come to that, years in the Templars having inculcated in him the habit of checking such things whenever opportunity presented. But he forced himself to remain seated, tipping his head back against the back of the couch, closing his eyes and listening to the sounds of the shower running in the other room, and, inevitably, picturing Sebastian in said shower, wearing nothing but streams of water and maybe a little strategically placed foam. He smiled when he realized he could hear another sound over that of the running water; the sound of Sebastian singing quietly in the shower. Not the Chant, which he might have expected, but a currently popular song instead.

* * *

He must have dozed off briefly, or at least zoned out for a while. The impact of someone sitting down on the couch beside him jolted him back to awareness, startling him upright, hand reaching for his belt even before he realized that it was only Sebastian.

Sebastian smiled at his reaction. "Here," he said, and offered Cullen an already-opened bottle of beer, drops of water still clinging to the outside of it, drops of water also dripping off the ends of Sebastian's still-damp hair to soak into the shoulders of the clean tshirt he was wearing now.

"Thanks," Cullen said, taking it, and took a swig, then settled back down in his seat again.

"No problem," Sebastian said, and sighed, slouching down in his seat, knees spreading wide as he did so, so that one pressed, seemingly accidentally, against Cullen's knee.

Though Cullen had become certain some time ago that around Sebastian, such things weren't accidents. The looks, the rare touches, even the way he'd position himself in relation to Cullen. As now, his slouch having placed him so that his head was lower than Cullen's, the curve it forced on his spine and the spread of his legs having put him in a position that Cullen could only think of as _inviting_. He should, perhaps, have moved his knee away, broken the contact, refused that silent invitation... but he did not, instead sitting just a little more upright, letting his own knee press back just the slightest bit.

Sebastian smiled, a knowing smile, then lifted a hand, peering at his own fingertips. "My fingers think I've been trying to turn them into prunes," he said, and wiggled the fingers slightly. "I'd best remember to moisturize them in a bit, or they'll turn all dry and rough from the soap and the scrubbing."

Cullen made a brief sound of agreement as he sipped from his beer again, the statement not really needing any verbal response. Sebastian let the hand drop again, rubbing it absently down his thigh as he, too, sipped at his beer. "You seem tired," he said.

"Rough few last days," Cullen said, and grimaced. "I don't know if you'll have heard... there was an assassination of one of the senior Templars the other night. A very quiet one; no one knew it had even happened until someone went to wake him in the morning, and found him with his head nailed to his pillow by an arrow through his throat. We think it was fired from a roof across the street, right through an opened window so that there wasn't even the sound of breaking glass to give it away. Anyway, that meant the assassin was hours gone before we ever even knew to start looking for him," Cullen said, sounding annoyed. "He could be on the far side of the country for now, for all we know. Though I think it's someone fairly local; we've seen this MO before. We call him the Archer, though there's evidence that it may be two separate people."

Sebastian grunted, and took another swig of his beer before speaking. "How can you tell?"

Cullen smiled crookedly. "We've found both crossbow bolts and arrows. Which implies two different weapons, which implies two different shooters, since usually a sniper will have a gun that he prefers using and uses for everything, and I can't imagine it being much different just because the shooter is an archer instead. We can't tell much beyond that, except that judging by the arrows he uses, it must be a compound bow. Probably a very small and powerful one; easier to conceal that way, though it likely wouldn't have the same range as a larger bow."

Sebastian eyebrows rose slightly. "Impressive."

"Very," Cullen agreed, then sighed and took another drink. "It's rather confusing at times, working for both sides; part of me is quite cheerful at having seen the last of Alrik, and part of me can't help thinking about how easily the other side took him out, and worrying that it might be me next."

"I doubt you have anything to fear," Sebastian said.

"How can I not fear, when only you and Hawke know that I'm on your side?" Cullen pointed out.

Sebastian smiled, looking amused. "Have you done any of the sorts of things this Alrik has? Enough to have gained the attention and hatred of revolutionaries?"

Cullen opened his mouth, then closed it, and thought. After a while, he sighed. "I cannot claim that there are not things I have done that I regret. I have done many ugly things in my years in the Templars. As to whether I've done anything to earn any special enmity... no, I think not. I hope not. Though I might be wrong, and find an arrow with my name on it winging at me out of the darkness one of these nights."

Sebastian smiled again. "Are there things you have _not _done that you regret?" And increased the pressure of his leg against Cullen's, making it rather transparently clear what he was asking. And then, before Cullen could even answer, he spoke again, in a much softer voice. "Perhaps something you and I might remedy right here and now?"

Cullen drew a breath and held it, studying the man. For all the casualness of his sprawl, there was a tension in him as he waited Cullen's answer. "Perhaps," he finally said, equally softly, meeting Sebastian's eyes, very aware of the slow smile that crossed Sebastian's face.

He sat still a moment, uncertain of what would happen next, and then slowly realized that Sebastian was waiting for _him_ to make the next move, to take the lead. A little shock of pleasure went through him at the realization. He'd feared... and yet... He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, cock hardening rapidly. "We should talk first, I think," he said. "About... boundaries."

"Yes," Sebastian said, his smile broadening, his voice very hushed. "Tell me what you'd like to do to me," he said, and now his voice was not quiet, but intense, the look in his eyes a smouldering one.

His hands clenched into fists at the words. Maker, so _much_ he wanted to do... The simplest things first. The least frightening, at least frightening to him; he suspected they would be much less so to the far more experienced Sebastian.

"Kiss you. Hold you down and kiss you. Touch you, be touched _by_ you a little, but mostly just touching you. Play with you, tease you,until you're begging for release. Have my cock as far down your throat as you can take it. Hike up your robes and bend you over your desk and fuck you hard..." He broke off, biting his lip for a moment, flushing with a mix of arousal at his own words, and shame at having admitted what he wanted, and mostly feeling _hope_, hope that Sebastian wanted those things too...

"You want, in short, to dominate me," Sebastian said, and if his eyes had been smouldering before, the heat in them was an inferno now.

_Yes._ That word. "Yes," aloud and hoarsely, and wanting wanting _wanting_.

"Then do it," Sebastian said.

Cullen _moved_, pouncing on the other man, straddling his outspread legs, tangling fingers in still-damp hair to hold his head motionless, kissing him with days, weeks, _months_ of pent-up need. Sebastian's mouth opened under his so easily, so compliantly. He had not just showered while he was in the bathroom, Cullen dimly recognized, noting how smooth his cheeks were, the faint taste of wintergreen mixed in with the less pleasant flavour of beer within the hot moistness of his mouth. He'd showered, shaved, brushed, made himself clean and fresh all over, just for Cullen's benefit. It made him feel dizzy, elation and desire and excitement all tangling up together.

He freed one hand from Sebastian's hair, the grip of the other tightening to compensate as he reached down and slid his hand up under Sebastian shirt, touching the hard stomach he'd wanted to earlier; damp and warm from the shower now, not from sweat and soapy washwater. He pulled Sebastian's head back, baring his throat, and kissed his way down it, feeling the other man's strong pulse under his lips, feeling how he gasped and arched as Cullen's fingers moved higher, finding and lightly pinching a nipple. His movement made Cullen moan against the skin of his throat, aware of how tightly confined his cock felt, swollen with excitement already within the unyielding denim of his jeans.

Torture, to back off for a moment, to stand up and begin stripping off his own clothes, fingers shaking as he undid his jeans, pushed them and his underwear down just far enough to free himself. Sebastian said nothing, did nothing, simply lying there on the couch, watching, eyes raking up and down Cullen's body, though little of it was exposed.

"On your knees," Cullen said, and Sebastian smiled, a dimple appearing in one cheek as he gracefully slid to the floor, long legs folding under him so that he knelt, feet tucked neatly together and hands lying folded in his lap, face looking down, waiting. So perfect a movement, from position to position, so practised a submission. Cullen's fingers trembled a little as he set them to Sebastian's chin and tilted his face upwards, just staring at him for a long moment, feeling more intoxicated than a few mouthfuls of beer could explain. It was the flush in Sebastian's cheeks that was doing it to him, he thought. The fearful knowledge that Sebastian was willing to allow him to have his way with him; _welcomed _it, in fact.

"Open," Cullen said hoarsely, touching his thumb lightly to Sebastian's lips, and he did, mouth falling easily open, tongue taking a single disobedient lick at Cullen's thumb, making him gasp from just the brief hot wet touch of it, imagining how it would feel on other, more sensitive flesh. "Oh, _yes_," Cullen said softly, and then laced his fingers into Sebastian's hair again, liking the feel of it sliding between his fingers, liking the feeling of control it gave him.

He took his time, trying to go slow and be gentle, though as easily as Sebastian took in his length, he suspected he was being overly cautious. But he hadn't done this often before, and never with a truly experienced partner, and he really didn't want to actually hurt the other man. But the sheer ease with which Sebastian swallowed him down, no hesitation, no choking, no distress at all, seemed almost unreal, dreamlike, nothing he had imagined as even possible, certainly not like anything out of his own past experiences.

The dreamlike feeling continued, as he watched Sebastian's eyelids fluttering half-closed, felt the muscles of his throat tightening around his length. He would have to move, he realized after a long moment, or Sebastian wasn't going to be able to breath. He withdrew again, carefully, waiting until Sebastian had taken in a little gasp of air around the thickness of him, then slowly thrust back in. And out again, and in, setting at first a slow and undemanding pace, feeling almost hypnotized by the ease with which Sebastian took the length of him. No resistance, just heat, and tight wetness, and the feeling of muscles tightening around him, tongue pressing against him.

After a while he was recalled to himself as his legs began shaking. He should, he realized, have sat down, on the couch or the edge of the desk, but standing here with Sebastian's head clenched in his hands while his hips slowly flexed just felt so blighted _right_. He studied the man's face, fascinated by how moist and swollen and reddened his lips were, by the way they fit around Cullen's girth, the soft feel of them dragging against his skin as he moved. Watched the sliver of bright blue visible between Sebastian's lids, the slight tremble of them, the curve of his lashes. The curve of his cheekbones, too, looking so different from this angle, especially when his cheeks hollowed as he sucked in whenever Cullen pulled back.

Cullen came with a low cry, pulsing wetly into Sebastian's mouth, vision greying out a little and filling with darting silver sparkles. His legs started to really give out as he withdrew, but strong hands caught him, pushed and guided him, so that he sat down hard in a guided fall onto the couch rather than onto the floor or over top of Sebastian. When his vision cleared he struggled to sit upright, aware of his underwear and jeans caught around his thighs and impeding his movement, able to think only of what a ridiculous sight he must be. He quickly hauled them up, tucking himself away and fastening his jeans before looking self-consciously over to where Sebastian was, having sat down again on the other end of the couch.

He was drinking from his beer again, holding it briefly in his mouth and swishing it around before swallowing. To remove the taste, Cullen thought, and blushed darkly. Sebastian grinned at him, and shifted position, his spread-legged position calling attention to the bulge in his own jeans. "You'll have to decide what else you want to try, once you're sufficiently recovered," Sebastian said, sounding almost ridiculously smug.

Cullen could only stare at him at first. And then laughed, feeling relived and happy and suddenly not the least bit self-conscious at all. "It may take us some time to work through them all."

Sebastian nodded. "Then I look forward to working under you," was all he said, before grinning and taking another drink.


	3. Merrill and Aveline

She was being followed.

Merrill was more used to that than she liked; it seemed to come with being small, and female, and obviously elven, and out on the streets after dark. She sometimes wished the college was in a better neighbourhood; it was a long walk to the nearest place where she could catch a bus. But if it had been a better neighbourhood, the college wouldn't have been able to exist there, so it was, she'd decided some time ago, just something she was going to have to live with.

Perhaps she should have accepted Sebastian's offer to walk her to the bus stop; but his home was the other direction, she knew, and she thought he'd be even less safe walking all the way from the bus stop to his flat than she was walking to it; she at least knew how to take care of herself. She wasn't entirely sure Sebastian did. Though it was kind of him to offer, anyway.

A few lights in the next street were out; one, two, three, all in a row, and she could make out the faint glitter of broken glass under the neatest one. Purposefully broken, and recently; they'd been whole on her way to the school earlier in the day, when it had still been light out. She smiled a secretive little smile, and kept walking, _listening_.

It was not that elves had significantly better hearing than humans or dwarves; just that they were better at actually listening to what they heard, and she was particularly talented at doing so. So where a human might have noticed only the distant sounds of traffic on the expressway, of TVs and radios playing, a dog barking somewhere, another dog answering, a crumpled sheet of newspaper skittering along the pavement... she heard the other sounds, too. The scuff of shoe against pavement from an alley mouth; the hoarse breathing of at least two people, the rasp of fabric as someone shifted position. The wind rustling the overgrown grasses and weeds in the vacant lot across the street; the faint moans from the back of a van parked just inside a back lane further down. The moans she ignored, knowing who was in that van, and that they were both quite content to be there. Though she did sometimes wonder what Hawke would think, if she ever knew about it. Probably not; Carver was good at keeping his own secrets.

She stopped a few feet shy of the alleyway, looking directly at the darker shapes in the shadows. Easy enough to pick them out, without even really trying; they had chosen to wear black, under the frequently-held delusion that it was less visible at night. She _smiled_.

A mix of bitten-off curses and sharp inhalations followed. She carefully drew back first one sleeve, then the other, baring her pale wrists and the criss-crossing of scar marks lacing up and down her forearms, faintly visible even in such poor light. Her smile widened as she heard a faint whimper of fear, and caught the distinct tang of urine in the air. "Care to reconsider your options?" she asked, voice low and smokey. After only a brief hesitation, they began to edge away. "Leave your knives. And if I see any of you around here again, you're dead. Got it?"

She heard the pleasant sound of blades clattering against the pavement, then running feet. She waited until the sounds had faded into the distance, then moved forward enough to kick the knives out onto the sidewalk, the faint light from the nearest still-lit streetlight more than enough for her to see by. Most were junk; cheap blades, bad steel, one simply a honed-down kitchen knife. Those she broke, one by one, leaving the shards in the gutter. There was one good one; a very good one, actually; a limited edition folding knife with a tungsten-steel blade. Someone had saved a long time to buy that beauty, she thought, or been very lucky in rolling someone. She crouched down and picked it up, taking a closer look, then ran her fingertip along the inside of the handle, having felt an imperfection; engraving. Either a serial number or a name.

That one she tucked in her own pocket. Too fine a blade to waste, and now she was curious to know whose it was, and how it had come to be here, in the hand of a back-alley hoodlum. A last look up and down the street to be sure there were no other dangers lurking around, and she continued on to her bus stop, hurrying slightly so as not to miss the next one due in.

* * *

Aveline looked up from chopping vegetables at the sound of the door locks opening, one by one, starting with the highest and working down. She smiled, setting aside the knife and wiping her hands dry on a tea towel before plugging in the hot water kettle. She was already taking down their mugs to set on the counter beside it when Merrill finally opened the door, kicking it closed behind her and smiling cheerfully at Aveline before turning away to lock all the locks again, from the bottom to the top.

"How was work today?" Aveline asked, as she measured loose leaves into tea-balls to drop into their mugs. Lapsang for Merrill; Oolong for herself.

"Oh, it was good!" Merrill said, as she moved to sit down on one of the stools across the counter from Aveline. She leaned over to pick up Aveline's abandoned knife, and started slicing up vegetables, at a much faster pace than Aveline would have dared.

Merrill started rattling off a lot of gossip about her co-workers; Aveline only listened to it with half an ear, never being entirely happy that Merrill worked there in the first place, especially since Aveline was well aware of the school's secondary purpose. There had been a time when she had thought of Hawke as a friend... she wasn't entirely sure that she still did. Not when Merrill had been drawn into Hawke's circle of friends. Circle of rebels; circle of trouble-makers. Circle of Maker-be-damned crazed lunatics, Aveline somethings thought, but never said, especially since she didn't entirely disagree with their goals; just in how they sought to implement them.

Aveline set a pan to heating on the stove, and then turned off the kettle, pouring just-boiling water into their mugs, pushing Merrill's close to her side of the counter before turning away in search of the olive oil. They were almost out; she noted it on the grocery list stuck to the fridge door before pouring a dollop into the pan, setting aside the bottle and swirling it around, smiling approvingly when it began to fume almost at once.

"Grate the cheese, would you?" she asked as she scooped up the chopped vegetables, tossing them into the pan in handfuls and smiling at the sizzle they made. She stirred and tossed them about, drawing in a deep appreciative sniff as they began to brown a little from the high heat. She didn't want them cooked all the way through; just caramelized a little. A few minutes later she dumped them out onto a platter, and turned to set it on the counter. Merrill had already grated the cheese, and put it, sour cream, and the pico de gallo and guacamole that Aveline had made earlier out, as well as two plates. Aveline fetched the flatbreads from where they were warming in the oven, and then walked around to take her own seat beside Merrill, smiling when Merrill immediately shifted over a little so that their arms bumped and legs pressed comfortably together as they assembled their veggie wraps.

Merrill made her usual very pleased sounds as she ate, eyes closing in pleasure. As it always did, the facial expression and little moans gave Aveline some thoughts distinctly unrelated to food. As she always did, Merrill could tell, and gave her a mischievous look before taking another bite.

"How was your work today?" Merrill asked after a few minutes, pausing to lick her fingers clean.

Aveline grimaced. "Not good. There was another building collapse over on the west side. All Docker and I found were bodies, though some of the other crews found living victims."

Merrill paused in her eating, already-large eyes getting even larger. "Oh, no... Oh, Aveline, I'm so sorry..."

"Why? It wasn't like it was anything your crew had done. In fact it's exactly the sort of thing you're fighting against, isn't it? Irresponsible landlords and business owners, not giving a damn any more about the safety of the buildings they're renting out, of the sweatshops they have people slaving in..." She stopped, hearing the bitterness in her own voice, and then sighed, setting aside her partially-eaten wrap. "Let's not talk about it now. I need to just not think about work at all for a while, okay?"

Merrill nodded, and leaned over to wrap her arms around Aveline's shoulders, hugging her tightly, though being careful not to hug her _too_ tightly, and laying her head on Aveline's shoulder. Aveline smiled crookedly, and hugged her back, as tightly as she could manage, and brushed a kiss across the crown of her head.

They sat like that for a couple of minutes, then Aveline moved to disentangle herself. "We should finish eating," she said, voice only a little unsteady.

"Yes. Food doesn't grow on trees, after all," Merrill said, and smiled in what could only be described as an anticipatory way.

"Or at least it better not be, unless you can produce certification and permits for your farming operation, and correct licensing for all genetic variants of plant stocks contained therein," Aveline said with mock severity, frowning theatrically at Merrill.

Merrill made a face, rolling her eyes. Aveline grinned, and leaned more heavily against her shoulder for a moment. They laughed together at the tired old joke, then finished eating. Aveline brewed a second mug of tea for each of them while Merrill cleaned up, putting the leftovers in the fridge and the dishes in the dishwasher, which still worked though it was becoming increasingly difficult to obtain replacement parts for it. They went and sat on the couch together, Aveline turning on the stereo on her way over.

It was nice to just sit there, leaning warmly against each other, sipping their tea and listening to the music.

"I like this," Aveline said after a while, nodding toward the speakers. "It's new, isn't it?"

"Yeah. I know a guy who knows the guy who's singing; it's an underground recording. I could get tickets to his next show, maybe, if you like."

"Maybe," Aveline said. She generally preferred staying in, though it was fun to occasionally dress up and go out and do things. The music _was_ pretty good, and the singer too; he had a lovely deep, husky voice. Maybe.

Merrill finished her own tea, and leaned over to set her mug out of the way on the coffee table, then settled back against Aveline again. She didn't stay still for long though; within moment she was squirming around, turning around and kneeling on the couch beside Aveline, nuzzling against the side of her neck.

Aveline made a pleased sound. "Tea," she said warningly, and Merrill sat back on her heels, scowling just slightly. Aveline gulped the last of her drink, and set aside the mug, only to immediately acquire a lap full of elf. A lap full of very hands-y elf, Merrill's finger beginning to undo the buttons of Aveline's shirt even as she pressed kisses to Aveline's jaw and down her throat. Aveline sighed, lifting her chin and tilting her head to one side a little to give the elf better access, even as her own hands moved to cup Merrill's shoulders, and slide down her back.

She kept her touch light, feeling the smooth shapes of muscle and bone through the thin fabric of Merrill's tshirt, the harder lumps and bumps of the embedded implants. Little overlapping plates of armour protecting the most vital areas, like the ridge of her spine; the small grainy shapes here and there of boosters and processors, batteries and memory units. All the things that made Merrill more than just Merrill; all the things that made her, depending on your point of view, either more or less than human. Than elf. A super-soldier, a partially-manufactured being, part machine and part organic lifeform. All of them either human or elves, the dwarves having long had their own considerably different version of such a thing.

She looked so small and fragile, seemed so innocent... it wasn't until you saw the scars from the fighting and all the surgeries, or she bared her pointed and too-long teeth, that you began to realize that she wasn't as fragile as she looked. Nor anywhere near as innocent.

Aveline slid her hands up underneath Merrill's shirt, then slid them back down again and moved to grasp the hem, and drew it off over her head, the elf obligingly leaving off undoing the last of Aveline's buttons to allow it. Her own shirt went next, which took a little more in the way of co-operation, and she sighed in relief as the elf reached around her to undo the fastenings of her bra and take it off.

Merrill, as she usually did, frowned, and ran her fingers lightly along the marks it had left in Aveline's skin. And then, a much more desirable touch, slid the palms of her hands across Aveline's breasts, making her nipples harden and rise. Aveline smiled, and reached to undo the simple light breast-band that was all the binding Merrill's own much-smaller breasts needed, little more than a hand's-width of stretchy fabric. Merrill made a pleased sound and arched her back slightly when Aveline's hands moved to mimic her touches. Aveline smiled, and pushed her back a little, giving herself enough room to bend down and mouth at Merrill's breasts. Merrill made an approving sound, her fingers moving to pluck loose the headband and ties in Aveline's hair, then combing through it to make it fall loosely around Aveline's face, across her shoulders.

"No fair," Aveline said, a touch breathlessly, as she straightened up again, and reached to tug gently on one of the many short braids in Merrill's own hair.

"Why not?" Merrill asked, and smiled happily at her. "You could always do the same."

So she did, carefully picking out all the little elastic bands, and unravelling each short braid, while Merrill sat quietly, eyes half-lidded in pleasure from the unintentional touches to her sensitive ears that were a beneficial side effect of what Aveline was doing. Merrill's own hands rested quietly in her lap, at least at first, though after a while she began making teasing touches of her own; letting the backs of her fingers stroke gently up the muscled curve of Aveline's stomach, then little light touches to her breasts, her shoulders, along her collarbones and down again.

Aveline shivered at the feather-light touches, and let a soft, pleased sigh escape her as she combed her fingers through Merrill's hair. It made the elf look very different, the top layer all wavy and poofed outwards, instead of her normal sleek cap of hair. Aveline smiled, and held Merrill's head still, leaning forward a little to gently bump noses and then kiss her.

They had to be careful with kisses. The elf's front teeth were artificial, pointed and very sharp, meant to tear mouthfuls out of an enemy in close-quarters combat if it became necessary. It meant having to be very careful of where she put her tongue, and that Merrill in turn needed to be careful of what she did with her mouth. Though there was an extra edge of excitement when Merrill did let her teeth touch flesh, a mix of cautious worry, and sometimes a little frisson of fear, but mostly a great feeling of tenderness over how extraordinarily gentle the elf could be, despite her training, despite how dangerous she was. Designed and modified to be a killing machine, yes, but one with impeccable control over herself.

Not that Aveline had always been all that much less dangerous herself, except she'd never had enhancements to rely on; just training and her own capability. Anyway, she'd put that behind her after leaving the south; no more did she endeavour to take lives. Instead, she sought to save and protect them. She hissed between her teeth and then moaned as Merrill began kissing her way down her neck again, letting her teeth scrape just slightly against Aveline's skin this time. Not enough to break the surface of the skin, or even scratch it, but just the exact amount of pressure for her to be very aware of the sharpness of them, the danger, the amount of trust there was between the two of them.

She flattened her own hands against the warm skin of Merrill's back, drawing her closer before letting them drift downwards, one coming to rest in the small of Merrill's back, the other continuing further down, stroking over the firm swell of her buttocks, before turning just enough for fingers to slide between the elf's legs.

Merrill's thighs squeezed tightly around her hand, the elf leaving off her kissing to gasp softly, forehead pressing against Aveline's shoulder. After a moment she lifted her head, smiling warmly at Aveline. "Bed?"

"Yes," Aveline agreed.

Merrill wiggled free and rose with a speed and grace that Aveline couldn't have matched even on her best days, looking happy and excited as she scooped up their discarded clothing and headed off to the bedroom, so much bounce in her step she was almost skipping. Just watching her made Aveline feel old and tired sometimes, and yet there wasn't all that much difference in their ages; just a scant handful of years. She sometimes wondered if all that energy was a side-effect of the implants, or if it was purely Merrill. More the latter, she suspected.

Aveline entered the bedroom to find Merrill having already put their clothes in the hamper, and busily stripping off her leggings. Docker was sprawled out across the bed, stretching nearly from corner from corner, his head resting on outstretched forelegs.

"Out, Docker," Aveline told the dog.

He grunted, then pushed himself upright and jumped down to the floor, feathery tail wagging back and forth behind him as he walked over to snuffle briefly at Merrill. She stopped what she was doing, smiling and bending down to sink her fingers into the dark ruff around his jowls and neck and give him a good scratching, before patting his back and straightening up again. He walked out of the room, tail still wagging slowly.

"Oh, that reminds me," Merrill said, digging in the pocket of her leggings. "I found this tonight," she said, and tossed it underhanded to Aveline.

Aveline caught it, eyebrows raising slightly as she saw what it was; a folding knife. A very expensive one. "Found how?" she asked suspiciously.

Merrill shrugged, looking pleased with herself. "The usual way. Anyway, I thought that looked like too good a knife for where I found it. And it's got something engraved on it," she added. "Inside the handle."

Aveline frowned, and took a closer look. "So it does," she agreed, running a fingertip across the fine lines. "A number. Serial number maybe? It might be a phone number; it has the right number of digits."

Merrill shrugged again, then dropped her leggings and socks into the laundry, and looked at Aveline, clasping her hands together behind her back. "Something to look into later, maybe?"

Aveline smiled, and stepped to the side to drop the knife into a basket of odds and ends on top of the dresser. "Yes, later," she agreed, and started removing her jeans. Merrill smiled at her before turning away to strip the top sheet off the bed – liberally coated with hairs from Docker's thick coat – before stretching out on it, and watching while Aveline finished undressing.

Things progressed along well-known, comfortable paths after that; cuddling, and careful touches, caresses and kissing. Aveline worked her way down Merrill's slender body, amazed as always by the beauty of it, the strength, the surprising weight of it from the myriad little armour plates, and hundreds if not thousands of implants. She touched the multitude of fine scars delicately, little ghost-light touches, listening to Merrill hum and sigh in pleasure.

A gentle pressure was all it took to encourage Merrill to spread her legs wide, then Aveline leaned close, fingers parting warm folds, stroking rhythmically between them. Merrill gasped, thighs going taut as she tilted her hips upwards and groaned.

"Oh, _yes_," she said breathlessly.

Aveline smiled, then lowered her head to mouth at Merrill's breast, drawing another soft cry from the elf. Merrill's hands reached to touch what of Aveline she could, stroking and petting at her, then she gripped Aveline's free arm and tugged. "I can't _reach_," she complained.

Aveline laughed, and moved higher up the bed, the two of them shifting around so that Aveline was leaning over Merrill, one hand still busy between her legs, fingers slipping in and out of moist heat, her weight supported on one elbow and her arm under Merrill's shoulder. Merrill's eyes were closed, her moans and soft cries almost continuous, lower body undulating in time with Aveline's movements. Her hands slid over Aveline's heated skin, gripping freckled shoulders, brushing down her arms and sides, cupping her breasts. As her peak neared, she gripped Aveline's head and pulling her down into a deep kiss, moaning into her mouth, only finally releasing her as she cried out in pleasure, her whole body arching with the strength of it.

Aveline kept up what she was doing until the spasms ebbed away, only then withdrawing her hand. They rose and went into the washroom, their usual habit of cleaning up together. Merrill made use of the bidet while Aveline washed her hands and brushed her teeth, then put her hair back in a stubby braid for the night while Merrill took care of her own dental hygiene, which involved a little more than just using a toothbrush. Aveline pulled on a flannel nightie – she was prone to chills at night, even in their usually well-heated apartment – and Merrill and she returned to bed, snuggling up together.

Docker, having a sixth sense for when he was allowed back, walked in and hauled himself up onto the end of the bed, stretching out across it with legs trailing up each side of the bed, a giant C-shaped lump taking up the bottom quarter of the bed. Merrill laughed softly and sat up, stretching out to where she could just reach his head – he'd lain down with it on her side of the bed, knowing her for an easier touch than Aveline – and ruffled his ears briefly.

"Good boy," she said, then leaned back on one elbow and looked enquiringly at Aveline. "So who owned the building?" she asked thoughtfully.

Aveline sighed, and made a face. "I don't know. But I'm sure I can find out."

"Good," Merrill said, face all serious for a moment, and then it passed, and she smiled as she lay the rest of the way down and cuddled up against Aveline again, yawning. "Love you."

Aveline smiled, and hugged her tightly for a moment, tightly enough to drive a squeak out of her, and was briefly thankful that she didn't have to watch her own strength, as Merrill needed to when it was she doing the hugging. "Love you too," she said sleepily.


	4. Fenris and Carver

**Fenris/Carver**

Fenris stepped out of the shower, towelling off his hair as he peered into the mirror. He really should trim it again, he found himself thinking; it was getting too long and shaggy again. For now he settled with combing it back, and fastening it in a ponytail to keep it out of his eyes.

He dressed quickly, in a white silk shirt and skin-tight brown leather pants, pulling on a beaten brown leather jacket over top. His guitar bag went across his back, he made a last check to be sure he wasn't forgetting anything – keys, wallet, clipboard of notes – then stepped into the well-worn leather sandals sitting on the floor near the door to his tiny studio apartment, and left, pausing only to lock the door behind him before hurrying down to street level.

The guitar went into the back of his van, its case carefully fastened down with bungee cords to be sure that nothing short of a fairly catastrophic accident would have it moving around. He climbed into the driver's seat, pulled on a pair of fingerless brown leather driving gloves, and checked the clipboard, making sure he was clear on the route to his gig tonight before setting out.

It wasn't a very long way away, as the crow flies, but he preferred not to take routes passing anywhere near the walled enclaves of Hightown where the more well-off lived. Too much surveillance there, not to mention police patrols, both of which he had an acquired allergy to. Instead his route took him considerably to the west, passing briefly through the edges of Darktown – as wrong a side of the tracks as it was possible to be within Kirkwall – before heading back north, into the heart of Lowtown. He parked in a tiny lot in back of the Hanged Man, removing the permit he'd been supplied with from the clipboard and leaving it visible on the dash so his van wouldn't get towed.

He felt nervous, as he climbed out and removed his guitar from the back. He hadn't ever played at the Hanged Man before; it had a reputation, not quite a bad one, not quite a good one either, as far as the safety of it went. And a second reputation, related to the excellence of the rare musical acts that played there. Just having been hired to perform here was a good sign, and could well lead to better things. He wasn't entirely sure how he felt about that. On the one hand more exposure and gigs couldn't hurt, on the other hand... it would draw attention to him. Attention he didn't necessarily want. Attention that might make it all that much easier for Danarius to find him. He couldn't walk out on this job though; not and still make rent at the end of the month. With a sigh, he hung his guitar over one shoulder, closed up and locked the van, and headed inside.

Inside was dim and smokey, only the smallest of windows – most of them above head height – breaking up the grime-darkened walls. The place smelled strongly of stale beer and staler fryer oil. He walked over to the bar, signalling to the bartender, who was idly dirtying clean glasses with a damp rag. "Are you Corff?"

"Yeah, that's me," the man replied, setting down glass and rag, and giving Fenris a once-over, eyes lingering briefly on the guitar case. "Fenris?"

"Yes."

"This way. Norah! Cover the bar," he called as he moved out from behind it. A blowsy woman leaning against the wall nearby straightened and moved to take his place as Corff led the way to the far end of the bar. There was a low raised platform of black-painted plywood tucked into a corner by a staircase leading up to the second floor, a few spotlights focused on it – only one currently lit – and a solitary microphone in a bent stand that it looked like it must have been used to hit someone or something with at some point in time were the only things that really marked it out as a stage. "This is it," Corff explained, then looked at Fenris again. "Just the guitar? No other gear?"

"Just the guitar," Fenris confirmed.

"Acoustic?"

"Yeah."

Corff snorted. "Right. Need a stool?"

"Please. Is there a second mike? I'd like one for the guitar as well."

"Yeah, I can dig one out. Give me a minute," Corff said, and disappeared through a door on the other side of the opening to the staircase. Fenris had only had enough time to set down his case and unzip it, then shrug out of his coat, before Corff was back, carrying a tall wooden stool in one hand, a mike and a roll of duct tape in the other. He thumped down the stool, then squatted down and swiftly taped the second mike to the stand, running the cord off to plug into an outlet in the wall nearby, which Fenris presumed connected it into the bar's sound system.

Fenris folded back the lid of his case, and lifted out his guitar, hands caressing it before sliding the strap over his shoulder. He nudged the stool closer to the mike stand with one foot, then sat down and began tuning his guitar. Corff, turning, whistled through his teeth.

"Damn, son, that is one _nice_ axe. Haven't seen a steel-body in years. Custom work?"

"Yeah," Fenris agreed, smiling and glancing toward Corff before turning his attention back to the guitar. Its polished surface shone softly even in the dimly lit bar, not chrome, but silver-plated steel, the face covered with delicate winding engravings, very Dalish in style, the sound holes cut in the coverplate in a pattern reminiscent of tree branches, radiating outwards from the centre. A hand-made one-off work of art; it was worth more than everything else he owned added together. Several times more. The only souvenir he had left of his early years...

"Want a drink? On the house," Corff offered. "Beer? Ale?"

"Mmm. Do you have any wine? Red, preferably."

"Should. I'll get you a glass," Corff said, and headed back to the bar.

It was the woman, Norah, who brought it over, along with a little round table not much larger than a pie plate in diameter to set it down on, within easy reach of him. "That's a beautiful guitar," she said appreciatively.

"Thanks," he said, and flushed, seeing she was giving him a more appreciative look than the one she'd given his instrument. She hovered briefly, then at a shout from Corff went back to the bar.

Satisfied with the tuning of his guitar, Fenris settled back in a more comfortable slouch, picking up and sipping the wine. He resisted the urge to make a face at its sourness, knowing he really shouldn't have expected anything better in a place like this. He glanced around the room as he drank. Not exactly a packed room, it still being relatively early in the evening, most of the customers clustered over by the bar and paying little to no attention to him.

He heard heavy footsteps coming down the stairs and glanced that way, smiling when he saw who it was. "Varric," he called, not too loudly.

The dwarf looked around, and grinned when he saw him. "Fenris!" he exclaimed, and walked over to exchange a forearm clasp with him. "You're looking well. Glad to see Corff finally booked you... I've been telling him for months he needed to get you in for a show."

"Thank you," Fenris said, knowing how much of his current success – small as it was – he owed to the dwarf. Varric had connections from the towers and enclaves of Hightown right down into the worst slums of Darktown; his influence had helped Fenris get desperately-needed jobs more than once since they'd first met.

"Might have a job for you later. Not music," Varric said.

Fenris froze for a moment. "Oh?" he asked, voice carefully neutral. Varric knew things about his past he hadn't told anyone else; dangerous things, like what else he'd been trained for, his other profession.

"Yeah. Don't worry, you'll like it. Swear to the Stone."

Fenris snorted. "You're a surfacer."

"Stone still means something to me. Okay, not very much, but swearing by it? That's an oath I'd best avoid ever getting a reputation for breaking, or half my deep-down contacts won't have anything to do with me. It's a merchant's guild thing."

Fenris snorted again, then smiled crookedly. "All right."

"Good. See me upstairs after your second show; I'll tell you where to go and who to see there."

Fenris nodded warily. Varric grinned. "I'm going to miss your first set – have to go see a man about a missing shipment. But barring accidents I should be back in time for your second set. Make it a good one."

"Always," Fenris said, and watched the dwarf hurry off, then resumed drinking his wine.

By the time his glass was empty, the evening crowd had started to trickle in, half-filling the place, more of them claiming seats near the little stage as they noticed it was occupied. After a while Corff walked by, heading back through the same doorway as before, and the spotlights focused on the stage came up, not to full brightness, but just enough to illuminate Fenris where he sat on the stool. He shifted position, moving his guitar into place as a hush fell across the room. A hush broken by a feedback squeal, and a brief burst of laughter, followed by Corff's voice over the sound system.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, our entertainment for tonight... Fenris," he said, and then the room filled with the faint hum of the waiting microphones. Corff slipped back out of the room, returning to the bar.

Fenris did a single muted strum, making sure his tuning hadn't changed during the wait, and then swung into his first piece, an instrumental melody, head bent as if to watch his own flashing fingers, surreptitiously glancing at the audience to gauge their reactions. They remained mostly quiet, listening with surprising attentiveness. He found himself relaxing, and swung into his second piece with barely a pause, joining his own voice to the music now.

Six songs was enough, he'd judged, as he was supposed to do three half-hour sets, with an hour's break in between. He was surprised at the volume of clapping that began once he stilled the strings with one hand after the last one, and shot a surprised – and pleased – smile at his audience.

"Second set in one hour," Corff's voice came over the sound system again, the bartender having gone into the back again at some point without Fenris noticing. That surprised him, a little; it was rare for him to become so absorbed in anything as to lose track of what was going on around him. He stepped down, took off the guitar, and left it leaning upright against the stool, shining bright in the spotlights.

Norah appeared by the stage. "Want anything to eat? A meal is included in your deal."

He was hungry; he nodded. "Please."

She waved him to a nearby table, handed him a menu, and departed with his empty wine glass. When she returned, it was with a full glass. "Enjoy – another patron paid for it," she told him as she set it down. "What'll you have?"

The menu did not offer a great variety of things, and he suspected from what was listed that most of it was mass-produced frozen things, not made fresh on the premises. "Potato skins and chicken fingers, please," he said, knowing from past experience elsewhere that those were usually edible.

She nodded, took the menu back, and headed off again. He lifted his wine and sipped it, then lifted his eyebrows in surprise; a much better wine than what he'd been served earlier. Apparently the place did have at least a few bottles of tolerably good wine. For Hightown rich that came slumming, he guessed, and wondered who had bought it for him. No one approached him, however, an unusual experience; usually between sets he had several people coming up to talk to him, though it was only rarely that they were actually honestly interested in his music rather than himself.

The hour break passed slowly, making him wish he'd brought along something to occupy his time. He made his meal last, and the glass of wine, but still spent the last quarter of an hour sitting there with nothing to do. It made him thankful that Varric wanted to see him after his second set, or the boredom would be getting to him before it was time for his third set.

He played a slightly different play-list for his second set, keeping his two best songs – though changing up their order in it – and doing four other pieces. His final set he planned to repeat five things from the earlier sets and play one new piece, which he'd only finished working out the week before and was still nervous about playing for an audience.

Fenris noticed Varric crossing the room, having returned from whatever errand had taken him out. The dwarf stopped at a table, smiling widely and talking to the people seated there – a dusky-skinned woman, her dark hair a mass of loose curls, and a taller, pale-skinned man with lighter hair caught back in a club – and then pull out a seat and join the pair of them, Varric leaning close to talk quietly to the woman, the man leaning forward a little to listen as well, arms folded on the table.

Just then Corff walked by, nodding to Fenris and gesturing toward the stool. He rose, and hurried to take his place, setting down just as Corff's voice boomed over the sound system again.

He stayed more aware of what was going on around him during the second set. The bar was much more crowded now, almost every seat occupied. The audience wasn't quite as attentive as they'd been earlier, more quiet conversations continuing while he played. Someone at the far end of the bar was not being at all quiet – aggravatingly loud, if anything – until a chorus of shushing finally made him quiet a little. Varric had stopped talking, was lounging back in his chair now, short legs crossed and one arm hooked over the low back of it, a smile on his face as he listened to Fenris play. Fenris glanced elsewhere, then lowered his head as he moved into an instrumental piece that required more concentration to get the complex fingerings right.

The next time he looked Varric's way, it was just in time to see another pair of people join the group. Two women, a small dark-haired one – elven – and a taller, beefier looking red-head. Varric beamed at the elven woman, who bent down to kiss his cheek and say something quietly to him before taking a seat beside him, and leaning forward to say something to the pair seated on the other side of him. The red-head exchanged a nod of greeting with the dark-haired woman before seating herself; clearly they knew each other. Varric made a shushing motion and they just sat and listened to Fenris' music after that.

When the second set ended Fenris rose, set down the guitar again, and stretched to loosen his muscles. Varric had risen from the table and walked over to stand beside the stage, leaving the four people behind, the original two and the elf talking together, the red-head sitting upright and leaning back a little as if to distance herself from their conversation.

"Is it safe to leave my guitar here?" Fenris asked worriedly.

"Yeah, no problem... Corff has some rather stringently-enforced rules about anyone going anywhere near the equipment. Anyone so much as steps on stage who isn't supposed to be there and they'll find themselves being pretty firmly ejected. Besides, there's at least one cop sitting in view of the stage."

Fenris stiffened slightly, then forced himself to nod and follow Varric away, remaining silent until they were at the top of the stairs. "A cop?" he asked quietly.

"The red-head at my table. Aveline. Don't worry, she's mostly an ex-cop; she's search-and-rescue now; dog-squad. But she still has the reflexes of keeping an eye on her environment, and even if Corff or Norah missed seeing someone getting overly curious about your guitar, she'd notice if someone tried to make it grow legs."

"All right," Fenris said, and allowed himself to relax a little.

Varric unlocked the door to his rooms, and led the way in. Fenris looked around curiously; he'd known Varric lived above the Hanged Man, but this was the first time he'd ever been here. The rooms were... interesting. An eclectic mix of furnishings, much of it of heavy antiques of a value and style that wouldn't look out-of-place in the mansions of Hightown. Though perhaps they'd look more polished and a little less well-used there; here it was all clearly things in daily use, not meant for mere show.

"Have a seat," Varric said, gesturing, and walked around the long table that dominated the main room to sit in a particularly ornate chair at one end of it. Fenris sat down to Varric's right, where he could see more of the room, with a solid wall behind him and almost all the windows and doors in view. By the slight smile on Varric's lips he was sure the dwarf knew why he'd taken that particular seat. Fenris smiled crookedly and lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug. No sense fighting his training when there wasn't good cause for it.

"So tell me about this job," he said.

"Friend of mine is looking for a little muscle," Varric said. "She's got plenty of sneaky people and techs in her organization, but at the moment she's woefully shorthanded on bodies for the more, shall we say, in-your-face sort of jobs."

Fenris raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what's happened to make her so shorthanded?"

Varric grimaced. "Nothing ugly. Just of the two she has easiest access to, one has strong moral objections to anything that's too obviously illegal, and the other... well, the other is her kid brother, and _she's_ got strong moral objections to dragging him into sticky situations. Especially since he seems to be making a go of an honest lifestyle at the moment. She's been making due with being the muscle herself, but she's better at sneaky-fighting; likes her knives. She has a job coming up... well, let's just say that I for one would sincerely prefer her to have someone standing in front of her who's trained for the position."

Fenris snorted softly. "You know I'd prefer to stick to an 'honest lifestyle' myself. My music..."

"Your music is fantastic, and if it wasn't for your allergy to making a big splash, you'd be making a big splash already instead of just wading around in the nice safe shallows," Varric interrupted. "Do this job and you'll earn enough to cover your rent for a couple of months. And if you please my friend, she'll have more work for you later. Not too often – she prefers to keep things low-key and not attract too much attention herself – but often enough that you won't be scrambling for gigs just to make rent on that dinky little studio apartment of yours, food on your table, and gas in that fuel-guzzling behemoth of yours."

Fenris flushed, jaw tightening in borderline offence at the dwarf's bluntness. Though he reluctantly had to admit the dwarf was right. He thought of all the gigs he'd found reason to turn down because they might make him _too _successful, successful enough for people to start to take notice of him, for word of his talent to reach the right circles... which in his case were the _wrong_ circles, Danarius being very much plugged into the music scene, through thankfully only at the high end of it and from the far side of the country, so that word of some minorly successful local musician here in Kirkwall was unlikely to ever reach his exalted ears.

Fenris frowned in thought. "What does your 'friend' and her group do?" he finally asked. Knowing that even asking meant he was at least partially committed to taking the job.

Varric smiled, leaning back in his chair. "You've heard of the Underground?"

Fenris frowned. "Those noisy fools who get themselves arrested regularly?"

"Nah, those are just window-dressing to keep the templars' attentions focused the wrong way. The _real_ Underground are the ones you almost never hear about. Though you might hear about things they've done, occasionally. A corporate email server accidentally sending some legally embarrassing emails to the wrong destination, a power-outage and generator failure leading to the escape of several political prisoners from a medium-security jail, on certain rare occasions some particularly untouchable and filthy-handed member of the plutocracy contracting a sudden case of accidentally or purposefully dead. That sort of thing."

Fenris' eyebrows rose higher. Each of Varric's examples was of something that had made the news in the last six months, despite efforts to cover it up. "If your, ah... _friend_, is involved in such behind-the-scenes work, than why do they need someone for, as you put it, in-your-face work."

Varric smiled, and shrugged. "Just because it's carried on behind the scenes doesn't mean it doesn't occasionally involve some heavy lifting. Plutocrats have minions, after all. That generator was in a well-guarded location, for one. Thankfully a well-guarded location where sneaky methods were good enough for taking out most of the guards."

"Most?"

"There was some in-your-face work involved with the final guard; smart fellow, he'd actually noticed that one of his comrades had missed a check-in and didn't just attribute it to the need for a smoke or a bathroom break. Almost blew the whole show by himself; we took more damage from him than from all the other guards combined."

Fenris nodded. And sat in thought for a while, Varric watching him patiently, stubby fingers laced together across the expanse of his embroidered vest.

"All right," Fenris finally said, reluctantly. "I suppose it can't hurt to at least meet this friend of yours. Tell me how to get in touch with her."

Varric grinned. "Excellent," he said, and fished a folded slip of paper out of a pocket, handing it over gracefully held between two fingers. "Memorize the address. Go there tomorrow afternoon around three. Someone will show up to take you to her, once they're sure you're not being followed."

Fenris waited a moment, then looked enquiringly at Varric when it was obvious that was all the dwarf had to tell him. "What, no passwords, or particular flowers in buttonholes or red shoes or anything like that?"

Varric grinned. "None. That's for amateurs. Your contact will know what you look like."

Fenris frowned. "And if someone shows up who _isn't_ the right person?"

"The right person will make themselves known in an unmistakable way. Just don't go wandering off with anyone you aren't sure is the right person."

Fenris snorted again. "All right," he agreed.

"Good. Now that _that's_ taken care of... that second song of yours tonight. I haven't heard that one before; loved it. When did you write that one?"

Fenris smiled, pleased, and their conversation turned to music until it was time for him to go back downstairs to play his third and final set.

Fenris was tired by the time that last set was done with and Corff had paid him; he'd been here almost four hours. He checked the time before heading out back to his van, mentally running through a route in his head... yes, he could just make it, he decided, and smiled in pleasure, before driving off to circle back through Darktown to get to another part of Lowtown. Darktown was far from safe at this time of night, but it was either take a shortcut through it or not make it to the bakery before it closed. Thankfully the drive passed uneventfully.

He turned his van into the alleyway beside the bakery just as Giselle, the clerk, was stepping out the back door to lock up and head home. She grinned, and waited, holding the door open for him. "Evening, ser," she said. "He's in back."

Fenris smiled, and ducked his head in thanks to the elderly woman as he hurried inside. She closed and locked the door behind him. Fenris turned left in the little hallway, punching in the passcode to open the door that led to the employees-only section of the building, stepping into a large, well-lit room, all cream paint, stainless steel appliances and furnishings, and pale blue industrial tiling

Carver was standing at a stainless-steel topped table in the middle of the room, energetically kneading a pile of soft dough as large as a well-grown toddler. He looked up as Fenris entered, and grinned cheerfully, a flash of white teeth against dark skin. "Didn't think you'd make it tonight," he said, hands still busy folding and pushing.

"I wasn't sure I would," Fenris said, and set his guitar case down in the little employee rest area off to one side of the room, an area consisting of not much more then a small fridge, and a short run of counter with a microwave, a kettle, and a coffee maker, along with a couple of metal-and-fibreglass stacking chairs, a coffee table, and a tiny television. He walked over near the table, but not all the way to it, standing and waiting while Carver gave the dough a last thump, dusted off his hands, and stepped away for a moment to lean down and kiss Fenris, Carver's hands held carefully out to the sides, both to avoid getting any dough or flour on Fenris, and to keep them from touching anything unwashed. Fenris carefully kept his hands to himself, knowing how vigilant Carver was about kitchen sanitary conditions; only their lips touched, briefly and dryly, but with considerable affection.

He returned to the rest area after that, sitting down in one of the chairs and watching while Carver went back to work, quickly sectioning the mound of dough with a metal scraper, lining up the pieces of it along the back edge of the table, and then efficiently setting to work in shaping each piece into a loaf to drop into a waiting line of greased pans.

Fenris sat quietly, finding pleasure in just watching Carver at work. He was a big man – a soldier once, Carver had told him, somewhere down south in Ferelden, before his family like so many others had become refugees in the north. He still had the physique of one, though now it was from toting around twenty to forty pound sacks of sugar or flour, kneading and shaping vast quantities of dough, and carting around fully loaded trays between racks and ovens, not from running about with heavy weapons and backpacks. A handsome man, too, with dark blue eyes that somehow managed to be warm despite blue being a cool colour. Those eyes and the cleft in his chin had been the first two things Fenris remember ever noticing about him, that and the shock of desire he's felt as soon as he'd first set eyes on the man. He hadn't known, then, nor for some time afterwards, that the desire was returned. But he'd gone out of his way more than once to stop in at the bakery, soon memorizing what times the regular counter-person went on break and Carver covered for her, so that he could meet him again.

They'd talked a little, mostly just innocuous bakery-transaction-related stuff at first, Carver asking if he'd liked some particular pastry he'd bought the time before, or suggesting something he might like to try today, him responding in kind. Carver had commented on his guitar bag one day, which led to a lengthy talk about music, continuing beyond when Giselle returned from her break, until Carver finally had to disappear into the back to get back to work. He owned the bakery, Fenris had learned, and apart from Giselle and Maury – an apprentice baker who helped out in the early mornings, when the biggest rush of baking was going on – he did everything himself. As now, when Carver was preparing things to bake the next morning, the racked trays of dough going into a big walk-in chiller to slow their rising, some of it already shaped, some of it just big containers full of raw dough to be formed into loaves or rolls or danishes come morning.

At some point he'd realized that Carver sometimes looked at him in an interested fashion, and became a bit more open in his own admiration of the other man. They'd flirted a little after that, both of them about equally cautious and hesitant. And one evening, Carver very casually mentioned what time he'd be shutting up the bakery for the night. Fenris smiled, remembering the look on Carver's face – partially elated, partially a little apprehensive – when he'd stepped out the back door of the bakery and seen Fenris' van sitting parked in the alleyway nearby, Fenris sitting waiting between the open back doors, a 6-pack beside him.

They'd mostly just talked, that first time, sitting in the back of the van together and drinking beer, with a little kissing and exploratory awkward fumbling before calling it a night. And repeated it all, a couple of nights later, with less talking and a lot more direct fumbling. Fumbling from Fenris, not Carver, the man thankfully being willing to take Fenris' word for it that he didn't like being touched himself.

Theirs was an odd sort of relationship, Fenris found himself thinking. Neither of them were much given to talking of their past, or even of their present; he knew that Carver was a baker now, had been a soldier in the south and then a refugee, that he had siblings, sisters, though not how many other than that it was a plural number, and no names, not even Carver's surname. He could hardly complain, having told Carver little more about his own background; that he'd been a musician for a big studio out west, before running out on his contract and moving to the east in pursuit of a far simpler lifestyle. That he got by from month to month mostly on minor gigs at bars and clubs. That he played guitar, had a weakness for spice cookies and apples, and didn't like being touched.

Carver had never pushed to know any more than that; a man with painful secrets of his own, Fenris guessed, or perhaps just one who valued his privacy. They got along reasonably well; they enjoyed having sex together. It was enough.

Carver had started mixing together another batch of dough; something involving spices and raisins. Fenris smiled, and took out his guitar, deciding he might as well pass the time working on his fingerings until Carver was done for the night.

* * *

Carver glanced over as the sound of soft music began, and smiled, keeping up his stirring together of the dry ingredients as he admired Fenris.

Even after several months of their relationship, it still felt unreal to him that he and the elf were involved. He still remembered his first sight of him... dressed all in black, that first day, tight black leather pants and faded black tshirt, and a black leather motorcycle jacket studded with smooth round studs in flowing patterns, the shoulders almost solid with them, like some kinf of armour, gradating down to just a few scattered ones near the lower hem. The white hair, dark skin – not as dark as Carver's own, and more olive than brown – the strange white markings on his chin and throat. Not tattoos or scars, but something _different_. Fascinating. He'd had dark bags under his soft green eyes, his white hair long and loose, brushing his shoulders. It had been a little on the lank and greasy side and Carver had immediately wondered what it would look and feel like, freshly cleaned and sliding through his hands...

He'd been pleasantly surprised when the elf had shown up again a few days later, wearing torn, faded jeans and a well-worn tshirt with the logo of a years-gone band on it, his hair clean and looking downy-soft, the faint breeze of the air-conditioner enough to stir it as he leaned on the counter, taking his time making his selections. The logo was that of a southern band; one Carver had listened to a lot, back in his teens, before the war changed everything. And after that Fenris showed up with surprising regularity, always when Carver was covering for Giselle during her breaks. That had sent a certain message to Carver; interest returned.

They'd felt their way into a cautious friendship, on the basis of those brief chats every second or third day, and then an equally cautious flirtation. Finally he'd taken the next step, the obvious one, the one they'd both been circling warily around for a week or two at that point, and mentioned a time when he might be available, if the elf was interested in more than just flirting. He'd been shaking, afterwards, once he was back in the safety of his kitchen, equal parts frightened that Fenris wouldn't show up, and frightened that he would. He hadn't slept with anyone since leaving the south...

He remembered how awkward that first night sitting in Fenris' van in the alley had felt, at least at first, though the beer had at least given them both enough false courage for a little kissing and petting before they'd finally broken apart, equally spooked, and called it a night. And after that the van and the back of it and the increasingly heated things they got up to in it had become a big part of Carver's life. Fenris had become a big part of his life, in an oddly understated way.

He didn't really know all that much about the elf. About his tastes in sexual encounters, yes, which fit reasonably well with Carver's own. That he was a musician, though he'd never gone to any of Fenris' shows, even the one time he'd come across a flyer for one at a local bar that he could have gone to, if he'd just had Maury cover for him for a couple of hours. It hadn't felt right though, not when they were neither of them given to talking very much about their past or their present, talking around their lives, not about them. Like it would be intruding, for him to go there, to take any more of Fenris' time than he already did.

Not that Fenris seemed to mind spending more time with him – witness how often, since they'd become intimate, that the elf had come and done just what he was doing now, keeping Carver company in the bakery until Carver was done for the night, free to go join him in the van parked in the alleyway. But this was _private_, only Giselle really knowing about it – though Maury doubtless had at least some suspicions, not being totally oblivious – and going to one of Fenris' shows, sitting there watching him perform for a bar full of strangers, that would be public. And he didn't know if he wanted to take that step, for things to go from just good sex between compatible near-strangers to something more... involved. Caring.

He poured the dry mix into the single elderly industrial mixer he owned, scooped in starter and poured in milk and switched the machine on, leaving it to mix the dough while he did clean-up of the work table. By the time he had that done, the dough was a kneaded, slightly sticky mass, and all that was left was to cut it into chunks to drop into oiled plastic tubs, to be stacked in the chiller for making sweet rolls out of come morning. He finished cleanup, including a thorough scrubbing of the mixer, then headed back toward the employee change room. "Pour me a coffee, would you?" he called out to Fenris as he passed. The elf was already putting away his guitar, and nodded in acknowledgement.

The flour- and dough-specked white clothing he was wearing went in a hamper, to be washed by the bakery's laundry service before being worn again, and he sighed as he stripped off the poofy baker's cap and the plasticized elastic-edged snood he wore under it that both sanitarily confined his dreads, and protected them from the floury environment of the bakery. He scrubbed at the little sink, washing his arms almost all the way up to his shoulders, and his face, scrubbing well under his nails to remove any dough caught there. From his locker he took out and put on socks, blue jeans, a faded khaki green tshirt, sneakers, his keys and wallet, then hurried back out to the main room.

Fenris was already up, leaning against the wall near the door, a couple of take-out cardboard cups in hand; black coffee for Carver, well-sugared tea for himself. They generally hadn't bothered with beer after the first few nights, once Carver had realized that the elf was only bringing it and drinking it because he thought Carver liked it. Not that Carver didn't like an occasional beer, but generally he preferred being in control of himself, not under the influence of anything. And Fenris had been pleased enough to switch off to non-alcoholic beverages, though he's once spent three hours talking very knowledgeably about wine, his head pillowed on Carver's stomach, for no reason that Carver could see except that Fenris had no more wanted that particular night to end than Carver did. Carver had felt like a zombie most of the next day, having to get by on so few hours of sleep, when he regularly short-changed himself as it was, but it had been _nice_, just lying there, his fingers carding repeatedly through Fenris' hair – one of the few times Fenris had permitted much touching – and listening to that deliciously deep voice talking, watching the expressive movements of Fenris' hands as he spoke.

It had begun to rain some time since Fenris had arrived, the alleyway all wet from it, water beaded on the sides of Fenris' beat-up old van, the droplets on the van and the walls and the pools on the ground reflecting the light over the door and the streetlight by the mouth of the alley in shivering sparks of silver and gold. A cold rain, but not a heavy one. The pair of them hurried the few steps to the van, Fenris' key scraping in the lock before the doors swung open. The van dipped and swayed as they both hurriedly climbed into the back. Carver laughed as he caught his balance and then awkwardly sat down without quite slopping over his coffee. Fenris handed him the cup of tea to hold along with it, then pulled the doors shut, and moved around the space, securing his guitar out of the way in a cargo net behind the seats up front, and flicking on a couple of penlights to give them some light.

They settled down on the well-padded floor, hip to hip, and spent a few minutes in just sipping their drinks, exchanging shy smiles. Finally Fenris set his tea aside in a drink-holder, and moved to straddle Carver's legs, hands knotting in his tshirt as he leaned forward and kissed him, tentatively at first and then more demandingly as Carver sat quietly, allowing it. Welcoming it, if anything, he loved being kissed, being touched. And Fenris usually touched him a lot, once he got started. As tonight, the elf's hands releasing his shirt and sliding up to cup his face, thumbs stroking against the scruff on Carver's chin, the stiff hairs making a faint rasping sound, Fenris pressing himself up against Carver so that Carver felt the pressure of the bulge in the elf's tight leather pants against his own stomach. He shivered a little in anticipation, feeling himself hardening in response.

Fenris broke off the kiss, and sat back, an amused smile on his lips as he dipped his head a little to one side, eyes still watchful from behind the white fall of his hair. Carver's hands itched to reach out and touch it, to remind himself of the exact silken texture of it, but he refrained, instead drinking off the last couple mouthfuls of coffee in his cup. Fenris took the empty cup from him, leaning over to put in in the drink-holder beside his own unfinished tea, then set to work stripping Carver, starting by tugging on Carver's tshirt.

Carver co-operated, liking the intent single-mindedness with which the elf invariably approached the task, a faint frown of concentration on Fenris' face as he peeled off Carver's tshirt, then shifted backwards so he could unfasten Carver's jeans. Carver toed off his sneakers while Fenris did that, then lay back, lifting his hips to co-operate as Fenris tugged the denim down his legs and off, yanking off Carver's socks as well before pulling his briefs down and off as well.

Fenris paused then, just _looking_ at Carver, lying nude before him. Carver liked that, liked the appreciative way Fenris eyed him, could feel his own erection stiffening further in his excitement. Fenris moved finally, leaning down to kiss Carver again, supporting his weight on one hand planted beside Carver while the other hand hovered, then came to rest on the centre of Carver's chest. He could feel the slight tremble in Fenris' fingertips where they rested against his skin, guess at the mix of fear and desire that caused it. Because that was one of the earliest things he'd realized about Fenris; that as much as the elf desired sex, he feared it as well. That he _hated_ being touched, especially being held in any way that was at all confining, which told Carver more than he though Fenris might realize, about why the elf was so fearful.

But brave, too, ignoring his fears, moving to straddle Carver again – Fenris still fully clothed himself – to kiss and caress the larger man. Carver sighed in pleasure, eyes drifting shut, his hands knotting into the plaid stadium blanket covering the padded floor to prevent himself from reaching for the elf in turn. He concentrated on the feeling of the elf's hands on himself instead, as Fenris slid them up and down his side, across the planes of his chest, palming over his nipples and then flicking at them with fingertips as they rose into little hardened nubs. Teeth closed around one, not painfully but not exactly gently either, fingertips pinching at the other, Fenris' remaining hand skimming down Carver's belly, remaining in contact even when Carver gasped, muscles clenching tight at the ticklish touch, then lower yet, fingertips scritching among the line of fine hairs trailing down from Carver's navel, to the thicker curls around the base of his cock. Carver moaned as Fenris' fingers moved teasingly along the sensitive skin there, coming close to but not quite contacting his shaft and balls, until he was whimpering needily, hips lifting to try and get Fenris to touch him where he needed it.

Finally Fenris moved off of him again, and began stripping his own clothing off, moving slowly, deliberately. Carver bit his lip, raising his head and watching avidly as more and more of the elf was revealed; expanses of dark olive skin marked everywhere with those strange raised lines, even curving around the base of his cock, a single short line of whatever it was curving up the underside of Fenris' balls. Carver couldn't imagine how much that must of hurt. Not that it seemed to hurt _now_, judging by the elf's jauntily erect state, precum beading at the tip of his erection where it was peeking out of the elf's foreskin. Again Carver found himself wishing he might touch, could close his hand around that soft skin and pull it gently back, run his thumb through that slick droplet and smear it over the head of Fenris' cock himself.

Fenris stretched for a moment, back arching, arms bent and out to the sides with his hands fisted near his head, then moved, lithe as a cat, nudging Carver's legs apart and kneeling between them. Carver held his breath for a moment, watching, thinking once again how beautiful the elf was, and how unbelievable it still seemed to him that Fenris liked him, was interested in him, when there was nothing at all special about him.

Fenris smiled crookedly, almost a smirk, as he leaned forward, reaching past Carver's head to fumble the tube of lube out of the pocket of the seat-back organizer where he kept it. He popped the cap open, squeezed some out on himself, smearing it to coat his erection with a steady stroking motion of his other hand, keeping it up as he leaned forward and returned the tube to its place, fingers winkling a clean cloth out of a different pocket. He dropped the cloth to the floor. "Up," he told Carver, touching his knee with his clean hand. Carver obediently folded his legs up and apart, holding them widespread with his hands hooked behind his knees. Fenris smiled again, that same crooked near-smirk, then left off stroking himself to rub his lube-slicked hand between Carver's buttocks. He retrieved the cloth long enough to wipe his hand clean afterwards, then set his own hands on the back of Carver's thighs, pressing his legs even further back before lining himself up and beginning to push his way in.

Carver bit back a moan, his head dropping back against the padding, eyes closing again, as Fenris worked his way in, in a series of short thrusts, the elf making a soft grunting sound each time he pushed further, not stopping until he was deeply seated. Fenris stilled, both of them panting for breath.

"Look at me," Fenris said after a moment, voice low and intense. Carver swallowed and managed to open his eyes, looking up at Fenris' face bent down over him, shadowed by the fall of his hair, eyes dimly reflecting the scant light of the penlights, just bright enough for his eyes to show as green rather than grey, for a few stray hairs to glow like silver as they refracted the light. _Beautiful_, was all Carver could think, caught by the intent look in Fenris' eyes.

Fenris began to move, slow careful thrusts, gentle, chewing on his own lower lip as he kept silent. Carver stayed quiet as too, as quiet as he could be, only the occasional gasp or moan escaping him as the elf's cock slid back and forth inside of him. Fenris didn't like noisy partners, which was fine with Carver; he'd never been entirely comfortable with vocally advertising just how much he enjoyed moments like this anyway. Silent was fine with him. Better than fine, somehow, making the occasional small noises that did escape Fenris all that much more intense, more satisfying than loud vocalizations would have been.

He felt his orgasm approaching, and struggled to keep his eyes open, his eyes focused on Fenris' face, until he had to give up, eyes fluttering closed as his head tilted back, crying out softly as his back arched, his spend pulsing out to slick his stomach, Fenris not having so much as touched his cock to bring him off. Fenris made a brief, approving sound, and kept up his slow in-and-out slide, grunting once as he shifted position, changing the angle at which he rubbed back and forth inside Carver.

Carver moaned and gasped, feeling tears leaking from his eyes as over-sensitized flesh was further stimulated. The elf had incredible control and endurance, and kept up his slow pace, making soft soothing sounds as Carver shivered and shuddered through the aftermath of that first orgasm and began to slowly build toward a second one. He managed to reopen his eyes after a while, staring up at Fenris again. The elf smiled, and folded him further, briefly, enough to lower his head and kiss Carver hungrily before settling back again, letting Carver's legs unfold a little, easing the strain on the muscles in his back and thighs.

Carver could tell when Fenris' own orgasm began to near; his gaze unfocused, no longer seeing Carver. His pace picked up, hips snapping forward more forcefully into Carver, breath panting audibly now from the extended effort. Carver moaned and whimpered, his own cock aching, sliding wetly back and forth in the sweat and semen smeared across his stomach. Fenris grunted, shifted position again, leaning heavily against one of Carver's legs while releasing the other, his hand finally moving to fist around Carver's erection, stroking it in time with his thrusts. Carver cried out hoarsely as he came a second time, seed dribbling out in little spurts, smearing over his skin and dripping down Fenris' fingers. He could feel the hot pulse of Fenris' own spend filling him, hear the soft cry – little more than a loud, choked-off breath – that Fenris made before going limp and still, draped heavily over Carver.

Carver forced himself to remain mostly still, keeping his hands to himself as he slowly straightened out one leg, keeping the other bent but at least letting it move to the side a little, foot bracing against the padded flooring, waiting for Fenris to recover, to move.

Finally Fenris stirred, pushing himself up enough to grab the cloth again, reaching down between them to hold it around where they were still intimately joined before he carefully withdrew, catching any spillage on the cloth, then wiping them both carefully clean before finally discarding it to the side. He moved out from between Carver's legs, patting gently at his bent one to urge him to straighten it out, then lay down alongside him, pressing up against Carver, resting his head on Carver's shoulder and draping one arm over him. Carver carefully moved the arm on that side to wrap loosely around Fenris, hand resting on the elf's hip. Fenris sighed, and snuggled closer, clearly in the mood for at least a little touching for once. Carver lifted his other hand up, very cautiously setting fingertips to Fenris' arm where it draped over his stomach. The elf did not protest; Carver let his hand move further, coming to rest cupped over his forearm.

For a while, the two of them just lay there in silence, listening to their own slowing breathing, to the patter of raindrops on the roof of the van. Their sweaty skin was sticking together as it cooled, though as humid as it was it was not drying with any noticeable speed. Finally Fenris sighed, snuggling even closer to Carver, before turning his head to peer at him. "That tattoo you have on your ass... that's one of those Fereldan dogs, isn't it?"

Carver flushed and gave a short laugh, thinking of the small tattoo on his left flank. "Yeah, a mabari. Though..." he paused, and blushed. "Mine's a bitch, not a dog."

Fenris lifted an eyebrow slightly. "Oh? There's a story behind that, I'm guessing."

Carver grinned briefly. "Yeah, there is," he agreed, and chewed on his lip for a moment. "Longish one."

Fenris lifted his eyebrow a little higher.

"Maker," Carver said, and dropped his head back. "It's a little... embarrassing."

"I'm in no hurry," Fenris said, sounding amused.

"Right. Okay then. I told you I was a soldier in the Ferelden army. We've got a lot of traditions, both official and unofficial, including things like the mabari tattoos, which only the elite soldiers get. When I started out I wasn't in an elite unit, I was just in a regular squad, though we did all right. Anyway, one of the very _unofficial_ traditions, it's, umm... this thing called a dogpile. You might get told that there was going to be a little party at a certain place and time, and if you showed up... well, there'd be people there to fuck."

"Whores?" Fenris asked, sounding uneasy.

"No, no, just other soldiers. Male and female both. The ones who were there to be fucked, they were called bitches, and the ones there to do the fucking we called dogs; it didn't have anything to do with gender, and it wasn't anything to be ashamed of, it was just what role you wanted to fill. And we didn't say fucking, we said dogging. You didn't fuck someone, you dogged them."

"Ah. And you were, um..."

Carver laughed softly. "Not at first. I was a good little ignorant farm-boy from the sticks when I joined up. Virgin, unless my own hand counts, and even that rarely... not enough privacy in the little place we had. Anyway, I was pretty clueless and nervous the first time I got invited along to a dogpile. Just a small one, two bitches – both women – and only four dogs other than myself, all of them squadmates of mine. I wasn't sure I was really going to do it or not, just sort of hung back and watched at first, until I finally got excited enough to work up the nerve to take a turn. It was... nice. Really nice. The woman figured out pretty fast that it was my first time, not just at a dogpile but ever, and she... she made sure I had a good time. And then the other women did the same, a little while later. So after that I started getting regular invitations to dogpiles, and taking them."

Fenris grunted. "And then what?"

Carver grinned. "Well, pretty soon I ended up at a dogpile where one of the bitches was male, and worked up the nerve to give that a try too. Usually there were more male bitches than female anyway, only about one in three, maybe four of the army was female to start with and not all were interested in dogpiling. That turned out to be good too, so I got a lot less picky about who I was willing to dog. And then one night I ended up at a party where there weren't enough bitches; there was supposed to be three, but one got sick and one was pulled at the last minute for an unscheduled patrol, so there was just this one woman there..."

* * *

The nude woman looked at the gathered group and shook her head regretfully. "Sorry, boys, but there's no way I can bitch for all of you," she said. "You're going to have to figure out an order and I'll take as many of you as I can, maybe draw lots or something. Or find another bitch or two to help out."

Carver and the others gathered there – almost a dozen of them, he thought – exchanged looks, none of them really willing to give up and go. Carver bit his lip. He'd only ever dogged before, but he'd wondered a few times lately why the men who bitched did it; clearly they got something out of it, some enjoyment comparable to the pleasure the other men got from dogging them. Maybe...

He found himself stepping forwards, scared and excited in about equal measure. "Maybe I could help?"

She turned and looked at him, head tilting a little to one side, and then smiled warmly. "Ever bitched before?"

"No," he admitted, flushing self-consciously.

She nodded calmly, looked over the remaining men, then pointed at one of them, a skinny little guy from over in one of the tech units. "You. Ernie. I know you know what to do with your dick; come over here and give... Carver, isn't it? Give Carver a real good first time bitching, all right?"

Ernie grinned widely, stepping forward. "Yes'm," he said, dipping his head to her in the closest to a salute the techies usually came. Rank wasn't supposed to matter in a dogpile, but everyone was always very polite to the bitches anyway – you risked stopping getting invitations if you weren't – and especially when they happened to be several ranks ahead of you when not stripped down to nothing but a hair tie, as the captain was.

In fairly short order Carver was equally naked, and down on his back, Ernie preparing him, his probing fingers already teaching Carver a few things about why the men who bitched did it. When Ernie actually eased in and then dogged him... it felt like nothing he'd ever imagined, and just so blighted good, better than even the best dogging had ever felt, especially with Ernie's fist wrapped around Carver's own cock so that he was feeling it fore and aft.

And when Ernie stepped away, there was someone else moving to take his place, sliding warm and wet and hard into him. Someone rather more handsy than Ernie had been, touching and stroking and kissing him. He'd never realized before that just how much he craved physical contact, how much he loved being touched. Things quickly became a haze after that, just pleasure, endless pleasure, varying close to pain at times as cocks slid back and forth over overstimulated flesh, hands stroking him, with kisses and gentle nips and sucking and licking helping out.

He had his head resting on the captain's knees he vaguely realized after a while, and smiled up at her, feeling so happy, so incredibly happy, and wondering if she felt like this when she was being dogged too.

"Is he okay?" someone asked anxiously, a voice he vaguely recognized as one of his squadmates.

She smiled crookedly, smoothing his sweat-soaked hair back from his forehead. "Oh yeah, he's just fine. He's _flying_. Just keep it slow and gentle; he's having a real fine time," she said, and he _beamed _at her, knowing she understood. And it _was_ like flying, a wonderful floating sensation, with so many hands touching him so gently, so lovingly.

Some timeless while later he found himself in the shower room, being supported by a couple of guys almost as big and husky as he was, soap-slicked hands running over him, carefully cleaning him. They dried him off, gave him water to drink, dressed him in a nightshirt and saw him back to his tent, seeing him safely put to bed in his own bedroll, a cup of water standing ready in case he was still thirsty. He slept deeply and dreamlessly, and woke happily despite the soreness of overused muscles.

* * *

"It was the _best_ thing that had ever happened to me, that night," Carver said, voice a little husky, tears prickling his eyes. "Like a religious experience. After that I bitched every chance I got, and I got a lot of chances in the weeks before the big battle. It was the best time of my life. It felt like I had a hundred lovers, and all of them so careful and gentle and, and _loving_..." He broke off, overwhelmed by the memories, blinking rapidly.

"And the tattoo?" Fenris asked, quietly.

"Ah, well, I did something in the sight of a superior officer that got me moved over to one of the elite units. So my new squadmates hauled me off to get the tattoo. Usually it's a, um... _rampant_ mabari, if you know what I mean. Definitely a dog. While the artist was doing the guy ahead of me – there was three of us needing it – someone said that I should get a bitch done, not a dog. He just meant it as a joke, but I liked the idea. I certainly wasn't ashamed of bitching; proud of it, if anything," he said, and grinned. "I was _good_ at it."

Carver paused for a moment, then sighed. "The tattoo never even had time to heal before the Battle of Ostagar. And after that... well, almost everyone I knew was dead, including almost all of those loving dogs of mine. The aftermath was an ugly, ugly retreat, and for me the retreat didn't really stop until after I'd reunited with my family and we'd fled here. And then I had a long, long dry spell after that." He smiled, and tightened his hand for a moment on Fenris' hip. "Until this one guy let me know he really liked the shape of my buns."

Fenris laughed, softly, then shifted position, moving to lie down on top of Carver, his legs falling to either side of Carver's thighs, his chin resting on the back of one hand, spread palm-down on Carver's chest. With the other hand he reached out to push Carver's dreads back out of his eyes, toying with the end of one. "So that's why..." he began, then trailed off.

"Why what?" Carver asked after a minute.

Fenris flushed a little. "Why you like how slow I do things."

Carver smiled, a slow, lazy grin."Oh, yeah. I love it long and slow and gentle like that. I could do that all night long. Well, not _really_ all night long, but for a pretty long time. It just... it feels so good, even when I'm so sensitive it's hurting a little. Nights when you decide you're up for a second round are the best."

Fenris snorted, and ducked his head a little, looking down at Carver's chest or chin instead of meeting his eyes. "Is that a hint?"

"Only if you want it to be."

Fenris smiled crookedly, then fell silent again, eyes unfocusing. Carver lay very still, wishing he dared wrap his arms around the elf. "I'm... almost jealous," Fenris said after a while.

"Why? My hundred lovers? It probably wasn't anywhere near that many, it just felt like it sometimes. Not like I was actually keeping count or anything."

"Mmm," Fenris grunted, and flushed a little. "No, not so much that. Just...the way you talked about it. That you were able to enjoy your first real sex so much, that your first experience with a... a gang bang... was actually a good memory for you. Mine... wasn't," he said, then abruptly rolled back off of Carver, sitting up with his back to him, sorting through the pile of their discarded clothing. "It's late," he said.

"Yeah," Carver said, and touched his hand to Fenris' bare back for a moment, open-palmed, gently, the most comfort he dared offer. Fenris darted a look his way, but neither flinched nor objected, just handed him his briefs and one sock a moment later.

They dressed in silence. "Drop you somewhere?" Fenris asked, as he always did.

Carver shook his head, as he always did. "Nah, I'll walk. I like the rain," he said.

Fenris nodded, and leaned forward to kiss him, just an awkward peck on the cheek. Carver smiled at him, then exited out the back of the van, while Fenris doused the penlights and climbed into the driver's seat. Carver closed the doors, gave them a tug to make sure they were properly closed, then thumped once on the side of the van as he walked by it, the cold rain already making his tshirt cling to his skin, pleasantly cooling after the overheated interior of the van. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, hunching his back a little. He heard the motor start as he reached the mouth of the alleyway, the headlights casting his own shadow large on the buildings across the street for a moment before he moved to the side. He was only a couple of buildings along when the van passed him. And stopped, then reversed, Fenris driving backwards and to the left to come to a stop right beside Carver, van facing the wrong way in the lane. Carver paused as Fenris rolled down the window, then leaned out out of it, tangling one hand in Carver's dreadlocks and pulling him closer to the van, before giving him a very heated kiss.

"Sorry," Fenris said, looking momentarily shame-faced as he released him, then gave Carver a hopeful look. "Tomorrow?"

Carver grinned. "Yeah. See you tomorrow night," he agreed. Fenris flashed him a brief, happy-looking grin, then slid back into his seat, rolled up the window again and drove off, swerving back over to the proper lane and then turning right at the next intersection, van disappearing in the darkness.

Carver walked on, grinning, not minding the cold rain soaking into his clothes.


End file.
